Copycat
by GunBunnyCentral
Summary: Inspector Nikita Mears and her partner Owen Elliot are hunting a serial killer who is copycatting other famous serial killers from history. Renowned forensic psychologist Amanda Collins - still struggling to recover from a brutal attack by one of her patients thirteen months prior - may well be their only chance to crack the case.
1. Prologue

"I'm reading your book, you know, Doctor C."

"What?" Doctor Amanda Collins sat in the right front passenger seat of a rental car driven by one Officer Joe Shields, and was currently staring out the window without really seeing - or hearing - anything at all. "I'm sorry, Joe. I was just... woolgathering."

Joe Shields could tell that Doctor Collins was fretting again by the way her brow had furrowed, and by the way she was resting her chin in her hand. He'd seen both tells often enough over the last few weeks - like the interview back in Burbank and the bookstore signing the other day in Los Angeles. "I picked up one of your books last week."

Amanda grinned at him, drawn from her heavy thoughts. "I wish you would have told me - I would have just given you one. I've got stacks of them in my study and I've run out of family to send them to."

Joe grinned back. "I figured - since I'm doing this - I should probably know what you're talking about. I was wondering, Doc - could you maybe, you know..?"

"You want an autograph?" Amanda chuckled at the thought, but there was no malice in it.

Joe stood his ground, though he couldn't help looking a little sheepish. "Why not? I've never known a real celebrity before."

Amanda allowed Joe to draw into her into further small talk as they continued along in the rental. He was stocky and a little short - maybe five foot nine. She herself was only a little shorter - maybe five foot eight or so - but the designer heels she always wore usually left her standing over him by several inches. He'd teased her about it once, actually - he had an easy, warm sense of humor and an equally warm and easy smile.

Today, for whatever reason, he'd swapped his usual suit and tie - the traditional uniform of every plainclothes officer - for a standard police uniform. Amanda couldn't decide if it was just some regulation he had to follow now that they were back in San Francisco, or if Joe felt some special need tonight to show that she was under police protection.

Whatever the reason, Amanda had immediately noted that the uniform was getting just a touch tight in the middle. She found it comforting, in an odd way - she'd met Joe's wife, even had the chance to sample some of her cooking, and could easily picture Mrs. Shields having a large, hot meal ready and waiting when Joe came home at night.

She could also picture Joe sitting there in his living room after dinner, drinking his favorite beer and watching the news while his kids played at his feet. Joe loved his wife and family very much, and it was obvious they loved him just as much in return - domestic bliss at its finest, and as alien a concept to Amanda as the sociopaths she studied were to the average citizen.

They were turning off the 80 now, leaving the Bay Bridge and San Francisco itself behind them as they took the Ashby Street exit, headed for the familiar streets of Berkeley

Amanda took a moment to discreetly study Joe again - she was actually going to miss him when this was all over. He'd insisted from the first that she call him Joe, but had spent the first week of their acquaintance calling her Doctor Collins - simply calling her Amanda was apparently out of the question, and she had reasons of her own for being unable to abide the much simpler Doc that Joe would have preferred, so they had finally compromised on the marginally more formal Doctor C.

Joe, for his part, seemed to be a little in awe of her - women with her academic pedigree were something of a new experience for him. He was a good, solid, uncomplicated man - qualities lacking in the men Amanda studied, and in most of the men she'd ever been attracted to.

Every so often, she'd catch Joe quietly giving her sidelong glances, admiring her face and her figure - nothing inappropriate or intrusive, just an honest appreciation that she found she didn't mind at all. In all honestly, the harmless male attention was quite a welcome change - spending all her time inside her subjects' heads wasn't exactly conducive to healthy romantic relationships, even if she hadn't been an avowed workaholic to start with.

Her current subject - and therefore current obsession - was one Daryl Lee Cullum. He'd been the only man of note in her life for the past two years, a killer she spent every waking moment attempting to analyze and pick apart on every conceivable level. He was her sole focus from the moment she woke up in the morning until the moment she fell asleep at night, and more often than not even followed her into her dreams.

She never could let those dreams go completely, and often found herself sitting at her desk before the sun was even up, turning those subconscious images over and over in her head to glean some new insight for her book. Those were the moments she could almost feel Cullum beside her, could envision the deceptively boyish features under an equally boyish mop of curly red hair and picture in vivid detail the tattoos on his arms.

That face - the face that had led at least five women to a painful, bloody death - was her touchstone and her meditation as she worked her way inside his head and did her best to unravel his secrets. It wasn't pretty or comfortable - or even healthy, for that matter - but it was her job to pick Cullum apart, to help prove that he needed to be locked away from the world for everyone's safety.

Shaking off that disturbing line of thought, Amanda stared out the car window at the familiar streets of Berkeley - they didn't seem to have changed much in the eighteen months she'd been on sabbatical. It had been a productive sabbatical, too - a book published six months in, and, unaccountably, instant celebrity when it hit the bestsellers list seven months after that.

She'd already had a certain amount of celebrity in professional circles - a reputation as an expert witness and consultant in her field - but something about her book had captured the popular imagination and the only thing to do was ride it out. The last few weeks had been a whirlwind of talks and interviews and signings, even a few talk show appearances.

Her return to Berkeley should have been her moment of triumph - the grand culmination of years fighting to be taken seriously by her own department. Instead, her victorious return was being completely overshadowed by the lingering fear that colored every moment of her life these days.

"You're not thinking about your lecture, are you, Doctor C?" Joe's voice broke into her thoughts, and she forced her attention back to the streets in front of them.

"No, Joe, I'm not," Amanda admitted, staring out the window as they crossed Martin Luther King and watching Berkeley City Hall pass by as they headed toward Shattuck. "I should really be reviewing my notes."

Joe was too sensitive and empathetic to believe that she was just worried about her lecture, and the glance he gave her said as much. "Don't worry, Doctor C. They'll get him - it's only a matter of time."

Amanda didn't bother to respond as she fumbled around in her bag, letting the familiar feel of the dark leather under her fingertips soothe her. The note cards she was looking for slid neatly into her hands, and she pretended to read them over as she wrestled with fear and guilt.

Daryl Lee Cullum was currently at large, and it was as much her fault as anyone else's. More than anyone else, if you asked Sherman, the Oakland D.A. who resented like hell the trouble and expense of assigning her police protection.

They'd rehearsed her over and over again - despite her extensive courtroom experience - but she'd let her arrogance and self-righteousness get the better of her on the stand, and the judge had declared a mistrial. In the resulting confusion, Daryl Lee Cullum had taken a bailiff hostage and then escaped, aided by Teresa Ann Slocum, one of his groupies.

Terry Slocum had hoped to be the Bonnie to Cullum's Clyde - or perhaps the Caril Fugate to his Charlie Starkweather - but had instead ended up being his first post-trial victim when he decided to celebrate his newfound freedom. Cullum had left a message for Amanda carved on Slocum's stomach, and a filigree design carved into Slocum's arms.

The carving - tattoos left in blood at knife point - was a recent addition to his ritual, something he'd just started experimenting with on his last victim prior to being captured. Sometimes he just used a .44 special instead, but there was always a deposit of sperm left behind, usually after the victim's death. (He'd grinned at Amanda once as he explained that every artist needed to sign their work...)

Sherman - and most of the police department - had probably wanted her dead, or at very least exiled somewhere far, far away, after the mistrial. Unfortunately for all of them, Amanda was their only shot at re-capturing Cullum.

Cullum had sworn vengeance on Amanda the moment he was arrested, and had never been anything other than confident that he'd get his revenge one day. He'd taunted her daily since his escape, sending her what he called 'love packages' containing things like hair and nail clippings or patches of skin. Sometimes it was just a bad Hallmark card signed with drops of his latest victim's blood.

The Valentine's Day after his escape, Cullum had sent her a handmade card containing a short poem that had graced many of his notes to her afterward.

_Put on your Sunday best, Doc,_  
_You're gonna ron-des-vous with me_  
_Le bon temps is startin -_  
_Daryl Lee is Free!_

There had been a brief - and horrifying - period of time where Cullum had somehow managed to get her cell phone number, using it to leave disgusting messages for her to accompany the constant stream of notes. He seemed to be under some sort of delusion that she was one of his adoring groupies, though he'd finally had to give up calling after a very near miss with the police, who'd managed to trace one of his calls.

The 'love packages' hadn't stopped, though - much harder to trace mail than a phone call - and so Joe Shields had been assigned to play bodyguard. It had been almost a month now, and Cullum had yet to show his face at any of her public appearances. An FBI friend at Quantico had told her just this morning that they were rapidly closing in on Cullum, but that would be little comfort until he was actually back behind bars.

The rental car was passing Sproul Hall now - the site of many a protest back in the Sixties - and Amanda was still pretending to read her notes. Joe was allowing her a companionable silence, which she appreciated, though she knew it was mostly just that he didn't have any idea what to say to reassure her.

That was alright, though - no words could have been as comforting to her as the confidence underlying his demeanor. He was no academic, but he'd been trained to serve and protect and had no doubts about his ability to do just that for her. Almost as if sensing her thoughts, Joe's hand shifted to pat the firearm at his hip - a lefty, she noted idly, just as she'd noted shortly after their introduction.

Gorgeous silver-green eucalyptus trees rolled by, and Amanda couldn't help rolling down the window so she could breathe in the familiar and reassuring scent. It was a typical midday scene on campus - attractive young men and women lazing about soaking up the sun, or moving around as they engaged in various other activities instead.

Several students were tossing around Frisbees, and Joe braked hard as a golden retriever with a red bandanna around its neck leapt out in front of them in pursuit of one. They were able to stop in plenty of time - though they were both unnerved at the near-miss - and the dog's owner came to retrieve his pet and offer his apologies.

It should have jolted already frayed nerves, but it somehow drew Amanda back to her own days as a student. The memories conjured were good ones, and she let them occupy her until Joe pulled them up alongside McClusky Auditorium.

Joe got out first, doing a quick visual check before allowing Amanda to leave the car. The warm sun felt good on her face as Joe offered some final instructions. "We need to find the other officers they assigned here, and then check in with campus security."

She nodded her understanding as he walked around the car to offer her his arm. "You look really nice today, Doctor C."

Vanity was just one of Amanda's many foibles, and she couldn't help a slight smile as they began walking up the steps. "Thank you, Joe."

Several minutes later, Amanda was safely ensconced behind a podium of gray metal and blond wood. Hundreds of students had come to see her, filling the auditorium - many of them were her former students. Despite her earlier anxiety, she was comfortable and confident in this particular spotlight, completely on top of her game as she talked about one of her great passions.

"Society helps create these crippled creatures, and their revenge for it is terrible. For a short time, they find solace in the pain of another human being - the cries of their victims temporarily block out their own pain, or maybe just make them feel alive. After that initial rush, however, comes the inevitable crash - depression, despair, guilt, and loneliness that can only be alleviated by taking another victim."

A screen hung above and behind Amanda, displaying her image for the benefit of those in the very back of the auditorium. Roughly five times her height at thirty feet tall, it provided a way to display the various notes, charts, and diagrams that accompanied her lecture, but also made her seem larger than life as she addressed her audience.

"Like addicts craving a fix," Amanda continued, "serial killers crave the rush of taking a human life. Often, this is because their emotions are stunted by years of abuse, and by rejection early in their lives. This isn't always true, however, and begs the question: what other factors are at work here? What triggers some people to become violent, but not others? Is it a genetic factor we haven't identified yet? What we don't know about the psychology of serial killers could fill library after library."

Amanda paused then, a moment of hesitation for dramatic effect before she emerged from behind the podium. She made an imposing figure, standing somewhere around six feet in her heels and wearing a red dress that managed to accentuate both her figure and her air of authority.

She let the audience wait just a moment longer - just long enough for them to start feeling restless and impatient as they waited to hear what she'd say next. Finally, she spoke again. "Would all the gentlemen in the audience please stand?"

The men in the crowd looked around at each other uncertainly, suddenly self-conscious, and Amanda smiled as she added a cajoling note to her voice. "Indulge me, gentlemen - let us get a look at you. It's only fair after all the time you spend watching us."

Amused murmurs and random snatches of laughter spread through the hall as the men began to stand one by one. Once they were all standing, Amanda continued on. "Thank you. Any of you under twenty and over thirty five may take your seats."

Once that was done, she spoke again. "Those of you standing who are not white may also take your seats."

This left a lot of young white males standing conspicuously amongst their peers, and she waited for the scrutiny to provoke the expected unease before moving on. "This is what popular media would have you believe most serial killers are - young white males, age twenty to thirty five, not particularly distinguishable from the people next to them."

"You may sit down now, gentlemen," she concluded. "Thank you for your assistance."

"In truth," she continued, "serial killers come from all races and all genders. They can, in fact, also be female. We're going to work with the popular conception of serial killers for just a moment longer, but remember that it is not nearly a complete or entirely accurate image."

Pictures flashed up onto the large screen as moved back into her lecture - ordinary young white men fitting the criteria she'd outlined. "Albert DeSalvo. Bianchi and Buono. David Berkowitz. Jeffrey Dahmer. Ted Bundy. All described as quiet, unassuming - even sweet. They held down jobs and were good neighbors. Their victims trusted them, sometimes enough to invite them into their own homes."

A flash of movement in the balcony caught Amanda's attention, but a quick glance showed nothing out of the ordinary and she returned to her lecture. "Serial killers are a particularly modern disease - though modern is a relative term - and one that afflicts the United States more than any other country in the world. This may be the reason for the popular conception we have of serial killers."

She paused for effect again, then pushed on. "Police science, unfortunately, cannot hope to cure this illness - it can only help us catch the perpetrators after they've committed a crime. The answer, then, lies in psychology - in understanding what goes on inside their heads, in understanding how they got to be the way they are. The State Of Florida spent almost eight million dollars to execute Ted Bundy-"

Another flash of movement on the balcony had caught Amanda's attention, only this time what she saw there rendered her mute and motionless - a plaid shirt and a pair of tattooed arms she'd recognize anywhere. Her reaction was subtle, almost invisible, but Joe, standing just out of sight in the wings, knew her well enough to spot it.

She managed to discreetly direct his attention to the front row of the balcony, but there wasn't anything there by the time he looked. Checking again, Amanda saw only rows of fresh-faced coeds waiting for her to continue. Chiding herself for being so easily spooked - and silently vowing to make herself finally take that long-delayed vacation to Italy - she turned her attention back to her lecture.

"The State Of Florida," she picked back up, "spent almost eight million dollars to execute Ted Bundy. That money would have been better spent keeping him confined for life, allowing psychologists to examine him. Perhaps then there might have been an answer to the question of why - out of all the infants born on November 24, 1946 - that particular one became a killer. Perhaps then we'd be better equipped to identify the Ted Bundys of the future, before they ever get the chance to kill."

There was a brief pause, then the audience broke into open applause - rare for a college lecture. Amanda moved to the side of the stage and then down the stairs, Joe right behind her. It didn't take long for her to be surrounded by enthusiastic students, some wanting to greet her personally, others requesting an autograph or simply wanting to contribute their own pet theory.

It was hell on already frayed nerves, but Joe's solid presence at her side made it bearable. Finally, she was able to move away from the crowd and toward an older, balding man in a herringbone jacket. The man tucked a cherry wood pipe into a pocket before extending a hand to Amanda. "Excellent work, Doctor Collins. I know Berkeley probably isn't much after your book tour, but we'd be happy to have you back."

A flash of amused anger crossed Amanda's face before she finally responded. "Thank you, John."

Either John believed the feigned warmth in her voice, or chose to believe it. She couldn't hide her unease from Joe, however - he could sense her distraction, see her eyes flick from side to side as she eyed the crowd. Deciding enough was enough, he led her around the next group of admiring students that were waiting to pounce.

"Jeez," Joe observed, "you're practically a rock star here!"

It got him the hoped-for smile, but Amanda's reply was more than a little bitter. "They wouldn't even consider me for tenure a year and a half ago. A bestseller and some interviews and they suddenly want me back as a department head..."

She paused then and gestured toward the ladies' room door in a nearby alcove. "I need to freshen up before we go."

She let Joe go in first - no one responded to his knock, or to his voice, so they stepped inside. The bathroom was surprisingly clean and large and modern - much like the auditorium Amanda had just lectured in. Glass bricks lined the space between the sinks and the long mirror above them, directly opposite the row of stall doors.

Committed to being thorough despite feeling a bit sheepish, Joe checked the broom closet - empty, save the expected broom and mop - before walking down the line of empty stalls. One stall wasn't empty, and Joe paused as he took in the stockinged, high-heeled legs partially visible beneath the stall door. "Excuse the intrusion, ma'am."

Satisfied that there was nothing dangerous lurking, he turned to Amanda and smiled reassuringly. "All yours, Doctor C."

Amanda headed for the nearest stall, already mentally reviewing the major talking points for her next interview out in Boston. She had barely finished latching the stall door when something was suddenly yanked tight around her neck hard enough to start lifting her off her feet.

The thing strangling her was some sort of makeshift wire noose - it cut into her fingers as she tried to pry it loose. With no air to scream for help, she kicked out at the stall walls and door, hoping to make enough noise to draw Joe back in. The noose kept lifting her higher and higher, though, and after a few kicks, she had to give up making noise in favor of trying to get some, anything, under her feet - the fact that she had somehow managed to open the stall door was precious little consolation.

It was still an impressive amount of noise, though, and she felt a surge of relief as she heard Joe's voice at the door. "Doctor Collins? Everything okay?"

Joe had only a moment to process the scene in front of him - Amanda, wire noose around her neck as she hung from the water pipes above the stalls - before the door to the previously empty broom closet burst open and Daryl Lee Cullum rushed right at him.

Cullum - dressed in a plaid shirt, khakis, and high heels - had clearly been on more than one sort of bender. He looked strung out, hair dirty and ragged, skin blotched with sores. His eyes were dilated and wild as he grabbed Joe and put a knife to his throat. "Now what in the world are you doing with my gun?"

Grinning manically, Cullum took the gun from Joe's holster and turned his attention back to Amanda. "You're the expert here, Doc. What does a sick fucker like me do in this situation? Do I gut him, or do I shoot him? Or maybe both?"

Not even bothering to wait for Amanda's reply, Cullum drew the blade across Joe's throat before waving the knife in the air and smiling at his prey. Amanda could only watch as Joe's eyes bulged in shock, mouth opening and closing silently as he struggled to call out for help.

Then, just in case the blood loss wasn't enough to kill him, Cullum turned and fired two shots into Joe's chest. Joe stumbled back against the nearest sink and slid down to the floor, leaving a bloody smear down the mirror and the tiles beneath it.

Cullum turned his attention back to Amanda, smiling as he advanced on her. Flailing desperately, Amanda managed to loosen the noose just enough to take in a single breath.

She screamed, and kept right on screaming until the moment she blacked out.


	2. Chapter One

_Thirteen months later..._

Jennifer Lyle pulled her new running shoes out of their box - a birthday present from her parents - and admired them briefly before carefully placing them back and setting the box aside. Getting them properly laced and fitted would have to wait until tomorrow.

Her window showed her a perfect San Francisco day that practically had her salivating at the idea of a good, long run. She was on a tight schedule today, though, so it was now or never. That was fine with her - her trusty old running shoes would be fine for one more run.

She did pause to look in the mirror, smiling at the new running suit she was wearing. That had been her twin brother Josh's present to her, though she'd had to pick it out herself - Josh had been colorblind since birth. She'd chosen a light purple that she thought perfectly complemented her blue eyes and blonde hair.

Grabbing her phone and earbuds, she dashed out the door. it was exactly as gorgeous outside as it looked - seventy five degrees and barely a cloud to be seen, unusual in late August.

Jennifer briefly considered putting the top down on her convertible, but decided she didn't want to waste the time - parking would be a bitch on a nice day like this. Everyone would be out at Golden Gate Park - at least it was Sunday, so JFK Drive would be closed and traffic would be light.

Surprisingly, she managed to find parking pretty easily, right near the Panhandle. As she worked her way onto the thoroughfare, she spotted several signs painted in Day Glo colors, in the style once popularized by artists like Peter Max and Fillmore West.

The various signs and flyers announced The Festival Of Love, an upcoming festival celebrating the birth of hippie culture in San Francisco. Jennifer knew, despite being some generations removed, that the Park had been the site of several love-ins back in the day - some of which family and family friends had no doubt attended. The mental images conjured by that thought made her laugh out loud as eased herself into her run.

She paced herself as she ran, passing the spot in Redwood Memorial Grove that served as her one-mile marker. A man was standing there with a camcorder, apparently shooting footage of the park. She pretended to ignore him, but he was cute and she decided she'd try and find an excuse to speak with him when she looped back around.

The man had apparently noticed her, too, because he lowered the camera and smiled at her. It added a nice edge to the rush of endorphins as she picked up steam and headed full-tilt into her run.

With any luck, he'd still be there when she got back...

{*****}

Doctor Amanda Collins tossed and turned in her sleep, tangling her body in her bedclothes the same way her mind was tangled in her nightmare. It was the same one she'd had at least a hundred times over the last year - blood on white tiles, then the sensation of drowning as that smear of red suddenly became a veritable flood that pulled her under...

She snapped awake, then, gasping and sputtering even as she somehow managed to draw enough breath to call out. "Alex? Alex?!"

Even if someone had been right there with her, though, they wouldn't have heard her - her throat was so dry and tight that she barely managed a whisper. Switching on her bedside lamp, Amanda climbed out of bed and started walking through the various rooms on the second floor - she didn't even bother fighting the urge to turn on lamps and sound systems as she went.

"Alexandra?" Her voice took on a plaintive note she hated herself for as she stood staring down into her study from the second floor balcony. The huge six-foot-tall painting behind her - a black and white painting of a figure in Victorian garb - seemed to reflect her bleak mood as its subject stared forlornly past her.

The balcony circled the entire apartment, supported by elegant columns painted a robin's egg blue. From her current vantage point, Amanda could look down into her both her study and the loft's living room - both of which were currently unoccupied. The design helped give the impression of almost infinite space - only the bedrooms and bathrooms had actual walls, while everything in the lower level had movable gray mesh screens to give the illusion of privacy.

As Amanda moved toward the stairs, she allowed the familiar view of her study to comfort and steady her. It held not one, but three, computers. The center terminal - her own personal system - was currently dark. The other two - the one set aside for Alex, and one set aside as a spare - currently glowed with shifting fractal patterns that reminded Amanda of Mandelbrot sets.

There was, of course, the expected phone and combination printer/fax/copier, along with the expected working clutter on the desk. The thing that really dominated the study, though, was the wall of large pale oak bookshelves - at nearly eight feet tall, the things were massive, and Amanda had crammed them full to bursting with books, notebooks, and other reference material.

Even the site of her favorite spot in the loft couldn't erase Amanda's anxiety at waking from her nightmare to an empty home, and she started snapping at a red rubber band she'd placed around her wrist. She also started repeating the makeshift mantra the she'd discovered helped to calm her. "George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison..."

She had a photographic memory - always had - but listing the United States presidents in order was still enough of a challenge that it helped focus and calm her. She'd feel even better after she got downstairs, amongst the various pieces of technology that now served as her window to the outside world.

First things first, though. She stepped into the nearby bathroom to retrieve her medication, pausing as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her already fair skin was paper-white after a year with no real sun to speak of, and the red hair she'd once lavished so much attention on was lifeless and shaggy. The dark circles under her eyes did nothing to offset the pallor or the hair.

A momentary flare of anger at her appearance only added to her anxiety, so she returned to her mantra even as she measured out her usual dose of Xanax. "James Monroe, John Quincy Adams, Andrew Jackson, Martin Van Buren, William Henry Harrison..."

She held onto the pills until she got to the living room downstairs, pouring herself a too-large Cognac to wash them down with. Alex wouldn't have approved at all - neither would Amanda's doctor - but it wasn't as if they were there to stop her.

Taking the snifter with her, she moved into the study and logged into her computer. Opening a web browser, she logged into a chat room she'd discovered during her confinement and started typing.

_Anyone on?_

Another user responded almost immediately. _Lots of us on tonight. You having another panic attack?_

_No_, Amanda replied. _Nightmare._

_That sucks_, the other user responded. _You housebound? Six months here..._

_Thirteen months and counting_, Amanda replied. Several others jumped in to start chatting as well, and the lingering anxiety slowly began to abate.

After a few minutes, she felt calm enough to be bored but not calm enough to go back to sleep and risk another round of nightmares. A quick check confirmed that one of her favorite online chess partners - with the tongue-in-cheek screen name Czech Mate - was awake and ready to continue their game.

_Your move_, he messaged her.

Amanda made her move, which ended up being a rather poor one. Czech Mate couldn't help teasing her about it a bit.

_Head's not in the game today, I see. How about we drop the game and meet? In real life - like a date._

Amanda just rolled her eyes as she replied - the exchange was something of a ritual between them. _Already told you - I don't date. Not viable relationship material. Quit flirting and move._

A few moves later, Czech Mate had to sign off, so Amanda got up and wandered into the living room to stretch her legs. An expensive antique onyx and marble chess set - an unexpected find during a trip to Turkey years ago - sat out with a game in progress. It was the running match Amanda had with Alex, and she smiled to see that the other woman had finally made a move. Studying the board, Amanda made a countermove of her own before walking on.

Considering that she was no longer able to step beyond its borders, it was fortunate that Amanda loved her home and had spent so much time and energy getting it as close to her mental ideal as possible. It helped make her captivity a little more bearable, and she'd take any help she could get there.

The left wall of the living room had pale wood paneling that matched the hardwood floors, contrasting nicely with the expensive cherry cabinets.

A mix of both abstract and representational sculptures - all high quality - decorated the room. Two couches and several soft chairs in the center of the room picked up the burgundies and maroons in the cherry cabinets, and complemented the wine-colored silk curtain that ran the length of the right wall.

The seating was built with polished blond wood, the lines modern but still graceful, almost feminine. The cushions were rich, plush fabrics - velvet, and damask, and silk. Throw pillows in gold and wine red - some embroidered in complementary colors - were scattered across the two couches.

The Amanda who had lived here a year ago had loved the colors and the elegance and the sensuality of this room - had decorated it with just those things in mind.

The far wall, however, was what really caught the eye and stole the focus. Walking through the front door and into the living area, visitors would expect windows - lots of them - facing out to provide a view of the bay. Instead, the far wall was covered with a large mural in colors that complemented the room - the style wasn't anything immediately recognizable, but it echoed that of many of Amanda's favorite artists.

Amanda, staring at the mural, picked up a small remote from a side table and pressed the center button. The mural began to split into five-inch-wide slats that then turned 180 degrees to allow the expected view of the bay. The light coming in through the windows wasn't especially bright at that hour - it wasn't quite full sunrise yet - but Amanda still shielded her eyes momentarily.

Walking to the windows, she stared out across the bay to see Marin County in the distance as the postcard perfect image of the Golden Gate Bridge hung above it all. It was an unexpectedly lovely view for a prison...

"On a clear day, I can see forever," she half-mumbled, half-sang to herself before trailing off into a bitter laugh.

Situated along the waterfront, Fort Mason Center had been the site of a Spanish garrison during San Francisco's mission days back in the 1700s. In the 1930s, it was converted to an army embarkation depot, processing over a million soldiers over the next four decades.

Then, in the 1970s, Fort Mason was officially converted into a segment of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area. After that, it had swiftly become a haven for the arts and the obligatory cultural junkies that came with them. It held galleries, museums, theaters, bookstores, and coffeehouses - even Greens, a world-renowned vegetarian restaurant.

Tourists and citizens alike loved to stroll along the pier to take in its exceptional view of the bay. Many of them also fished off the piers, and there was always the restored SS Jeremiah O'Brien to tour once fishing lost its appeal.

Doctor Amanda Collins had been one of the very few with the money and good timing to buy up space in one of the only refurbished warehouses where the zoning laws had allowed developers to build residences. It was not lost on her that she'd chosen her home because it sat atop one of the most beautiful, accessible, interesting, and entertaining locations in all of San Francisco.

She hadn't seen any of it in thirteen months.

Finding her snifter empty, she turned away from the view and went to go pour herself another Cognac.

{*****}

Inspector Nikita Mears moved cautiously through the graffitied hallways of an abandoned tenement building. Tense, weapon drawn, she moved with a quiet strength that belied her delicate frame and equally delicate features.

Pretty and petite - though her features were at present largely obscured by safety glasses - Nikita's long brown hair drew most of the attention as it fell down her back against her dark suit jacket. Her partner Owen Elliott - well-muscled and a little stocky - was right beside her, looking equally out of place in his own suit jacket.

Stopping at an intersecting hallway, Nikita stepped out into the open with weapon drawn, her shooting stance picture-perfect. When the corridor proved empty, she moved on, signaling Owen to follow her. He moved just as quickly, taking up a position against the opposite wall.

They both stood there, quiet and still, until a figure leapt from an open doorway a few feet down the hallway. Dropping immediately into a shooting stance, Owen emptied all nine rounds on his semiautomatic into the attacker. Nikita wrinkled her nose at the smell of graphite, then whipped off her safety glasses to fix her partner with a familiar, much-put-upon expression.

They were on a training range, inside a specially-rigged building, and their surprise attacker was a life-size, spring-loaded cutout made of particle board.

Nikita's small frame and long hair made her seem younger than her years at first glance, but her demeanor as she strode forward to examine the target made it perfectly clear that she was Owen's superior in every way that mattered. Owen, for his part, observed her posture and her expression and wondered whether letting his imaginary opponent take him out might have been less painful than the tongue-lashing he was about to get.

"Well," Nikita said after a moment as she poked and prodded at the particle board, "the good news is you're still alive."

Owen, unable to resist teasing her, just gave her his best cocky grin. "You see a downside to that somehow?"

The grin didn't work - not that it ever had, in Owen's experience - and Nikita just sighed as she struggled to stay patient. "I mean it, Owen - this is basic stuff here. Didn't anyone ever teach you to shoot surgically?"

That was all fine and good - for Nikita - but it wasn't how Owen worked. "Let's think about this here-"

"You shredded him," Nikita pointed out, cutting him off.

Owen shrugged. "It was instinct."

"It was poor impulse control," Nikita countered. "Let's start by assuming you didn't shoot an innocent bystander who couldn't hear your warning. Let's say you shot your suspect as he was trying to surrender."

Owen just shrugged again. "Guy jumped out at me. It was a good shoot."

"Maybe," Nikita conceded, "but now you're on leave while IAB sorts it all out. And your dead suspect's wife has now hired a lawyer so she can hit you with a wrongful death suit."

"Fine," Owen said, chuckling. "Why don't you show me how it's done, then?"

As if on cue, another figure popped out into the corridor - a cutout of a man holding a hostage at gunpoint. With a dancer's grace - and a marksman's instinct - she raised her gun and neatly put three rounds into the target's shoulder. Without missing a beat, she jumped right back into her lecture. "Go for the brachial nerve - he drops the weapon, and you read him his Mirandas instead of reading your statement to IAB."

Owen nodded his understanding. Nikita was being a little hardcore about shooting technique, but she had plenty of reason - he'd heard that story himself, and could imagine what went through his partner's head every time she picked up a gun.

It hadn't even been Nikita's mistake. It was the mistake of another female rookie who'd come through the academy with her, and become Nikita's friend and roommate afterward.

They'd bonded over the shared difficulties of being female - and not white - at the academy. They'd had to fight twice as hard for the same respect the male trainees got automatically, and had shouldered that burden together to make it easier - it had helped that they both excelled on the shooting range to a degree that no one could ignore.

After graduation - both of them very near the top of their class - they were each assigned to different veteran officers for continued training. Nikita had been assigned to someone working among the Vietnamese community, due to speaking the language, and her friend had been assigned to someone in the Fillmore district, a rough area with a lot of street crime.

Neither of them had shown any fear or doubt, though. Instead, they'd bet dinner at their favorite restaurant - Hayes Street Grill - on which of them would make detective first.

Then the thing happened that every cop - no matter their beat or department - has nightmares about. Nikita's friend and her partner - one Rudy Tejada - were shortcutting through an alley en route to a domestic disturbance call when someone stepped out of the shadows and trained a gun at Rudy's back.

The assailant had ignored all warnings and requests to drop the gun. It remained pointed and level at Rudy's back, and Nikita's friend had done exactly as she'd been trained to do. She fired, hitting her mark - and discovered that the would-be assailant was just a nine-year-old boy, his tiny frame somehow magnified by a trick of the light.

The gun had been a bright orange plastic toy, impossible to see clearly in the shadows.

The internal investigation had cleared Nikita's friend, but that had done nothing to quell the community outrage over the tragic mistake. Even that might have blown over eventually, but the press had collectively determined that Nikita's friend was guilty and hounded her day and night. Unable to shake the guilt, denied any chance at all to make a fresh start, Nikita's friend had finally quit the force and found employment elsewhere.

The change in employment managed to save the friendship as well, but Nikita had taken the tragic lesson to heart. She trained herself relentlessly to shoot without killing, honing already impressive skills to an almost ridiculous degree. Her father and her uncles had all been cops, and old-school cops at that - 'serve and protect' was the Eleventh Commandment, and ranked right up there with 'thou shalt not kill'.

Admittedly, Nikita found that conviction to be slightly absurd sometimes in the face of the numerous times she'd seen killers go free, but she clung to it all the same. She was also determined to pound at least a little of it into Owen's head - even if he was the worst shot she'd ever seen.

Before the lecture could continue - thereby possibly escalating into an argument - Owen's cell phone rang. Butterfly by Crazytown blared out of the speaker, and Nikita didn't know whether to roll her eyes or smile at the completely smitten look on Owen's face as he answered the call. "Heya, Emily. I've been waiting for you to call. I can't get away for lunch today, so what do you say to dinner tonight or lunch tomorrow?"

Owen wandered off down the hall to get a little privacy while he talked to his girlfriend, and Nikita couldn't resist messing with him when another target popped out of nowhere at the other end of the hall. She landed her usual three shots and just smirked at Owen as he stuck his tongue out at her.

Then Nikita's cell phone went off, and everything but the job was forgotten as she and Owen raced for their unmarked car.

{*****}

Just under four minutes later, they came to a stop in Potrero Hills. Owen's right hand was wrapped around the handhold tightly enough to turn his palm white and leave marks from his fingernails - Nikita, for all her care with firearms, drove like she was in some sort of racing competition whether speed was of the essence or not. She had her iPod blaring, and they both sat there listening to the final notes of the current song as they took in the crime scene.

The crime scene was taped off with the usual yellow tape and SFPD stickers, while SFPD personnel rushed to and fro at their assigned tasks. The coroner's van and other police vehicles had left no room for anyone else to get by.

A small blonde figure in a navy blue suit pushed to the front of the crowd of onlookers, attempting to engage the officer nearest the line of police tape. The young officer seemed to fall for it, right up until the moment he spotted the tiny recorder the blonde was trying to hide in her hand.

Nikita let out a groan. "Fuck. Morelli's already here."

There was history there, Owen was sure of it, but Nikita had remained unusually tight-lipped on the subject and all he could do was tease her about it a bit. "Shoot her in the brachial nerve. She'll drop the recorder."

Nikita sighed, closing her eyes and slowly opening them again. "Don't tempt me."

Jill Morelli - small, blonde, impossibly cute, and possessed of a truly frightening journalist's instinct for news - spotted them immediately and made a beeline for them, meeting them as they reached the tape. "Nikita! Is this victim number three? They're saying it fits the same pattern as the other two."

Nikita didn't even bother correcting Morelli's uninvited use of her first name - more evidence to support Owen's theory of history between them. "I just got here, Jill. And you know I can't comment, anyway."

Morelli tried turning on the winsome smile and puppy dog eyes. "Is there a serial killer stalking San Francisco? The public has a right to know!"

Owen stepped in as Nikita started muttering under her breath. "Like Inspector Mears said, Miss Morelli - we just got here and are not prepared to issue a statement at this time."

He shook his head in disbelief as they finally got beyond Morelli's reach. "Is that idiot trying to start a city-wide panic or something?"

Nikita opted not to reply, instead heading over to a plainclothes cop who was unpacking camera equipment. "Hey, Bernie. Can you grab me some shots of the crowd?"

Bernie - a longtime friend - smiled at her as he nodded. "I can even have them say 'cheese' if you want, Niki."

Owen, looking around, grabbed Nikita's arm, cutting off her conversation with Bernie. "Fuck me. Tasarov's here."

Homicide Chief Ari Tasarov stood at the top of the stairs, conferring with a uniformed officer. A somewhat lanky man with brown hair that was beginning to gray, his easy smile and seemingly relaxed demeanor were deceptive. The man was a bulldog, tenacious to the point of being plain ornery, and was frequently quite angry - though that was to be expected in a job where a ridiculously small percentage of success was something to celebrate and no one was ever truly happy with your results.

Owen and Nikita knew the drill and walked straight over to him. Turning his attention to them, Tasarov began filling them in on the situation. "The landlady found our victim. The front door was open and no one answered the doorbell, so she got worried and went in. She used the phone to call 911 but swears that she didn't touch anything else."

"Robbery gone wrong?" Nikita tossed the idea out there, already knowing it wasn't the right answer. Much as she hated the thought of proving Morelli right about anything, years of instinct and experience told her she was about to confirm the third victim in the chain, officially making this a serial killer investigation.

Tasarov tried the idea on for size, then rejected it the same way Nikita had. "There's no sign of forced entry, and nothing else was disturbed. It's all yours now - I'll handle Morelli."

The last was directed at Nikita with a smirk that told Owen Tasarov had been privy to whatever it was about Morelli that Nikita was refusing to share. Setting the thought aside, Owen joined Nikita as the walked into the apartment, pausing only to pull on latex gloves and shoe covers.

The apartment was small, and neat, and clean. The victim hadn't had much money but had taken pride in the decorating she'd managed on her meager budget - based on the victim's age, this had probably been her first apartment out of college, her first place with no roommates.

Ikea furniture and Pier One knick knacks predominated, though there were a few family heirlooms scattered throughout that didn't quite fit in with everything else. There were also cheap framed prints on the walls - pretty, but nondescript and certainly nothing classic.

A tall white bookcase - more Ikea, probably - dominated one wall. A quick check showed it to be filled with a mix of self help books and some bestseller light reading, with a few old college textbooks thrown in. Nearby, perpendicular to the outside wall, hung a silkscreen print - a bright crimson heart against a black background, in a black frame.

It caught the eye no matter one's place in the room, and everyone seemed to find that just a little unnerving.

A middle-aged woman stood at some nearby windows, face streaked with tears as she stared vacantly through the glass. Nikita approached the very young, very blond cop tasked with keeping an eye on her, who looked so uncomfortable it was hard not to feel sorry for him. "Is that the landlady?"

The cop nodded his confirmation, and Nikita smiled at him. "Who was first on the scene?"

"I was," he replied, then immediately got distracted by Owen walking over to join them both.

"Johnson, huh?" Nikita asked, reading his name off his badge and using it to regain his attention. "What's the first part?"

Johnson looked a little sheepish at the slip in attention. "It's Mike, ma'am."

"Nikita will work just fine, thanks." Nikita smiled to take the sting from her correction. "Did you touch anything, Mike? Pick anything up or open any doors? I'd hate to get all excited about a good set of prints and find out they're yours."

"I didn't," Mike replied. There was an emphasis on the word 'I' that immediately caught Nikita's attention, and she filed it away for later.

She sent Owen over to interview the landlady. It didn't take him long to get her calmed down and talking - for all his cockiness, Owen could be surprisingly good with people.

Nikita went into the kitchen, taking in every detail as she scanned it from ceiling to floor, trying to find anything that might be useful in building a mental image of the victim. Clean dishes sat on a dish rack, and a hodgepodge of pots and pans hung on the wall. A quick inspection of the drawers and cabinets jibed with everything else about the apartment so far - not much money, but an attempt to make the most of what money there was.

The only thing that seemed out of place was the tea kettle, currently on its side in the sink. It was almost upside down, making it difficult to determine if it had been placed there out of habit or knocked over during a struggle.

Squaring her shoulders, Nikita walked into the bathroom to get a look at the victim. Jennifer Lyle - purple jogging suit nowhere to be seen now - lay in her bathtub, naked and bruised. She'd been posed carefully, too, one leg dangling over the side of the tub.

A dying floral arrangement sat in a vase on one side of the tub. Gift bottles of various bath salts, bubble baths, and bath oils cluttered the back edge of the tub, along with several small candles. Those candles had all burned down to nothing, and Nikita wondered if the killer had been the one to light them.

An expensive Danish mesh sponge sitting by the vase confirmed Nikita's initial read of the room - Jennifer Lyle had loved pampering herself, had loved spending time in that bathroom.

The coroner - one Frank Able - was just completing his examination of Jennifer's body, noting down the reading off a thermometer. He nodded in quiet greeting as he spotted Nikita.

It was Nikita who broke the silence in the room, squatting down beside Frank to get a better look at the body and the tub. "Got a time of death for me, Frank?"

Frank looked at the thermometer again. "I'd say about eight hours, give or take."

"I'm seeing ligature marks around the neck," Nikita added, "and petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes. Was she strangled?"

"Just like the other two," Frank confirmed, and his words hung heavy in the air of the small bathroom.

A serial killer was indeed at work in San Francisco. The kind of man who taunted legions of law enforcement agents - from beat cops all the way to FBI agents - with their seeming invisibility. The kind of man who murdered deliberately, intelligently, and with absolutely no humanity.

The majority of them, it seemed, hailed from America, and San Francisco - despite being named after the famously peaceful St. Francis of Assisi - certainly had its fair share.

"All right if I move her now, Inspector?" Frank's voice broke into Nikita's thoughts.

"Yeah," Nikita replied, giving the body one last glance. "Just... be nice to her."

Resisting the urge to cross herself or utter a prayer - every woman, even a cop, lived in fear of the end Jennifer Lyle had met - she left the bathroom to go look for Mike Johnson. He was still keeping an eye on the landlady, and looked even more worried and anxious than he had earlier.

Nikita eyed him, trying to figure out what was off. "You were the first one here, right, Mike?"

His simple 'yeah' felt a little evasive to Nikita, so she pressed on. "Are you sure you didn't touch anything?"

That netted only another evasive non-answer from Mike, so she pushed again. This time, though, she tossed in a smile and added a cajoling note to her voice. "It's okay if you did - as long as you tell me about it so we can account for it."

Agitation flickered across his face as he glanced over to the rec silkscreen heart and then back to Nikita. "There was some kind of stocking tied around the victim's neck when I found her. I don't know what happened to it..."

Nikita nodded, as if that was just fine. "Who was here before the CSIs? I'll check with them and make sure it got tagged into evidence."

"Just Captain Tasarov," Mike said after thinking a moment.

Forcing a relieved smile to cover a sudden surge of irritation, Nikita patted Mike on the arm. "Oh, that's okay, then. I'll talk to him. Thanks, Mike."

{*****}

Nikita burst into Ari Tasarov's office with a full head of steam, having had plenty of time to work herself up on the trip back to the station. "Why the hell did you remove evidence from my crime scene?!"

Tasarov was listening to an online interview that he was apparently streaming from one of the local news networks. He waved her into a seat while simultaneously gesturing for silence. "I'm listening to this."

Nikita's anger only grew as she recognized Jill Morelli's voice, positing her serial killer theory during an interview with one of the local news networks. (Never mind that Morelli was in fact correct.) "I'm just really worried - and I think we all should be. We have a potential serial killer in the city, and with the Festival Of Love about to start, who knows what could happen."

The interviewer asked the obligatory useless questions in response, somehow managing to create a perfect platform for Morelli's parting shot. "The police won't tell us anything, and I can only wonder - is that because they just can't tell us yet without harming their investigation, or is it that they don't even have any leads to share?"

Tasarov mercifully ended the clip before Nikita ground her teeth down to the gumline - but it was still a close call. It only added fuel to Nikita's current fire. "God, I hate that woman."

Tasarov didn't even bother to hide the glint of amusement in his eyes. "Then perhaps you shouldn't have slept with her."

Ignoring the jibe, Nikita launched right back into her tirade. "You took evidence from my crime scene."

Tasarov didn't immediately reply, instead letting Nikita linger in silence as he picked up an electronic cigarette and inhaled deeply. It was the only concession he was willing to make to the building's anti-smoking laws - and to Nikita's constant fussing about his habit - and it was also a convenient way to jibe back at Nikita.

The mutual respect between them elevated their constant jibing at each from something potentially toxic and harmful to merely an eccentric way of displaying a long-held affection for each other. It also provided a handy way for both of them to vent a little.

Still, the long pause as Tasarov took a few more puffs from his electronic cigarette had less to do with his usual teasing and more to do with doing some serious weighing of his words. Nikita, sensing this, closed the door before moving back to the desk. "Talk to me, Tasarov."

"Someone in this department can't keep their mouth shut," he said simply after a moment. "I still don't know who that someone is."

Nikita walked around to perch on the edge of his desk. "And that stocking?"

Tasarov rolled his eyes. "I tagged the damn stocking into evidence so we could keep it quiet - it'll get processed with everything else we collected. Let the damn thing go."

They both knew it wasn't just about the stocking, though - at least, not completely - but it was Nikita who voiced that fact. "Look, am I in charge of this investigation or not? I mean, really and truly. Am I?"

Tasarov tool another drag off his cigarette. "Of course you are."

"Good," Nikita shot back. "Then maybe I should be the one deciding what evidence to sequester."

Sitting back and suppressing a chuckle, Tasarov took the bait. "Tell me, Inspector, what evidence from this case do you believe we should sequester?"

Nikita grinned at him, knowing her point had been made. "The stocking that was found around the victim's neck - sir."

Tasarov grinned right back at her. "You're one pushy broad, Mears."

"And you watch too many old movies," Nikita shot back, though without any real heat. "But I'll take that otherwise sexist remark as a compliment."

He waved her off toward the office door, then realized at the last second that he'd forgotten one final and very important thing. "No one has said serial killer, Mears - you understand me?"

Nikita nodded as she stepped out into the bullpen, and Tasarov took a few more puffs off his cigarette as he tried to figure out how the hell he was going to keep this from blowing up in all their faces.


	3. Chapter Two

Amanda Collins opened the door of her apartment and peered down the massive hallway outside of it. The San Francisco Chronicle lay just a little over seven feet away from her doorway - both ridiculously close and impossibly far away.

Stretching out a foot, Amanda tried to grab the paper and drag it to her - it was too far away for her foot to reach, not that she'd expected otherwise. She took a step out into the hallway, her doctor's words ringing in her ears.

She actually managed to take a second step before her breathing began to change - it grew increasingly rapid and shallow with each passing moment, despite her best efforts to stay calm.

Another couple steps and the wall she was clinging to suddenly seemed to elongate, stretching off into the distance at an exaggerated perspective as she flattened her sweaty palms against it for support. The errant newspaper suddenly seemed impossibly far away and equally impossible to retrieve - Amanda felt a sudden flash of anger at herself and her weakness as she once again vacillated between deciding the paper just wasn't worth it and finally caving in to her condition enough to start a digital subscription.

She snapped the rubber band on her wrist repeatedly as she slid down the wall to the hallway floor. That floor took on its own nightmarish aspect, seeming to pitch and roll underneath her until she grew dizzy from the imaginary movement. She was hyperventilating now, skin sweaty and mouth dry, and it took everything she had to stand up and walk back to her door instead of just crawling.

Once she was finally back inside the safety of her apartment, her knees buckled and she slid down the inner side of her door. She allowed herself a few minutes to just sit there, knees tucked up under her chin, as she waited for her pulse and her breathing to even out. That was when she realized that her eyes were watering - she refused to acknowledge it as any form of tears or crying, she still had that much pride left - and the flare of anger that provoked pushed her the last little step back into herself.

Pulling herself back onto her feet, Amanda marched resolutely into the kitchen, where she retrieved a broom from the pantry. She practically marched herself back to the door, broom in hand, before throwing the door open and glowering at the offending newspaper. It took a few tries, but the broom finally snagged its target, and Amanda pulled the newspaper close enough to snatch up and take into the apartment.

Taking it back into the study, she spread the paper open and glanced over the headlines as she sipped at her morning tea. The primary front page headline stared up at her in bold black and white: POLICE BAFFLED IN DEATH OF THIRD WOMAN.

It took everything she had not to hurl her expensive bone china tea cup against the nearest wall as she snarled into an empty room. "IDIOTS!"

{*****}

In the wake of Jennifer Lyle's homicide, every confession addict in San Francisco - at least - was vying for attention and the chance to confess. The homicide division's bullpen at Nikita and Owen's precinct wasn't exactly spacious on the best of days, most of its space allotted to desks, plants in various stages of dying, and old filing cabinets that were somehow still in use.

Today, it was packed to overflowing.

Detective Inspector Michael Bishop sat in an interview room with Harvey - a serial confessor and frequent visitor who nonetheless needed to be taken seriously until they confirmed he didn't know anything useful. For all Harvey's insistence on confessing to the Lyle murder, Bishop knew for a fact that the man wasn't violent or dangerous.

Still, protocol had to be followed, and no one in the department was going to pass up even a slim chance of getting a lead. "Alright, Harvey. You followed the woman home - and then what?"

Michael's voice had a distinct rasp to it, something he had deliberately cultivated over his years as a cop because he knew it could be intimidating. Harvey, however, didn't seem to be the least bit phased when he replied. "I killed her."

Michael seriously doubted that, but he still had do the legwork to prove it. "Alright. Where did you kill her?"

"In her house," Harvey obligingly supplied. "In the bathtub."

"I see," Michael replied. "Why did you kill her?"

Harvey was on a roll now - or so he seemed to think. "Because she was dirty. She was a very dirty girl."

Michael, recognizing the ritual from Harvey's numerous other confessions, moved to gather what he needed to shut the conversation down. "Do you remember how many times you stabbed her, Harvey?"

Harvey actually pondered that for a moment. "Uh - eighty seven? Yeah, eighty seven."

Stopping the recorder, Michael signaled for another officer to join them. Once there was someone else present to keep an eye on Harvey, Michael went back to his desk to dig out the number he kept handy for Harvey's family.

His internal 'why me?' grumbling - nothing against Harvey, really, but this was a bad time for the extra work Harvey always brought with him - must have become external at some point because Nikita just chuckled at him without even looking up from her computer monitor. "Must be your winning personality."

"Or the fact that you sound like Batman," Owen quipped as he walked up to join them.

There was something less than friendly under the seemingly harmless jibe - not at all unusual with the two men - and Nikita just rolled her eyes as she tried to get them both back on task. "Did you and Mercer find anything, Owen?"

Owen shook his head. "We went through everything - bills, receipts, medical records, social media, anything we could get access to check. Nothing in common with our other two vics."

Nikita knew there had to be something there - some common link - even if they didn't see it yet. "No mutual friends or acquaintances?"

Another head shake. "As far as I can tell, the only thing these women had in common was the fact that they all owned vibrators."

Nikita laughed, albeit quietly. "That's not a common factor, Owen - that's a fact of survival."

Owen just shook his head and laughed - equally quietly - before walking away to start an interview. Michael watched him go, an unfriendly glint in his eyes.

Nikita didn't even need to look up to see it, either, and she didn't bother to hide her annoyance. "Don't start with him, Michael. I'm not in the mood for it today."

Before Michael could reply, Nikita's phone started ringing. Nikita sighed as she checked the caller id. "Again? This is what - the third call today?"

And that wasn't counting the previous calls that Nikita had missed. Looking around, she failed to find the information she was searching for. "No one's completed that trace for me yet?"

There was no help for it right at that moment, so she answered the phone. "Homicide. Inspector Mears speaking."

Without introduction or preamble, the caller started speaking. "I think your serial killer is on a lunar cycle. The first two victims were killed twenty eight days apart, and this third one -"

Nikita hated interrupting her - the woman's voice was pure ear candy, and there was a decidedly sharp mind behind it - but she really didn't have the time for games right now. "That's a very interesting theory, Miss -?"

As expected, the caller hung up - exactly as she had all the other times someone had tried to get her to identify herself.

Almost as if planned, Gigi - a baby-faced police clerk - walked up to Nikita holding the results of the trace she'd requested a couple days ago. Nikita eyed the name written on the slip of paper and went pale. "Shit."

Owen wandered back up just then, snatching the paper from Nikita's hand as she sat there stunned. "Who's Amanda Collins?"

"Who's Amanda Collins?" Nikita just blinked at Owen like she couldn't believe he had to ask that question. "_Doctor_ Amanda Collins, PhD - probably one of the top three forensic psychologists in the country, and _the_ top expert on serial killers."

"At one point, maybe," Michael corrected, jumping into the conversation. "She's been out of commission for the last year. There are rumors she had problems going back even before that."

"Shit," Owen said, recognition finally dawning. "She's the shrink Daryl Lee Cullum fucked up, isn't she?"

Nikita resisted the urge to slap Owen upside the head. "Show a little empathy, Owen. Even better - go to the morgue and get me those autopsy results. We should have gotten them by now."

Not really caring if Michael and Owen started bickering on her absence, Nikita locked her computer and headed straight for the precinct library. A few minutes later, she was seated at a table piled high with material on Amanda Collins - she had Research pull all the available video on the Daryl Lee Cullum trial, plus whatever press clippings and biographical info they could find.

A copy of Collins' last book - _Our Sons, Our Killers: Profiles Of The American Serial Killer_ \- sat off to one side. Nikita had set that aside for later in favor of looking over Collins' Curriculum Vitae instead.

The career it recounted was beyond impressive. Amanda Collins had done her undergraduate work at Columbia, moving to Berkeley for her graduate work, where she'd earned her PhD and been awarded a professorship.

In the last fifteen years, Collins had published four books and numerous articles - including her PhD thesis - and had become one of the few in her field to obtain status and recognition outside the academic and professional community.

There had even been a two-year stint where she'd been affiliated with the FBI's prestigious Behavioral Science Unit. They'd flown in her as an expert witness during the Andrei Chikatilo trial - Chikatilo had ultimately been convicted of the sex-related murders of fifty two women and children.

She'd traveled all around the world, and - just before the Cullum incident - had been in Australia consulting on studies of the spike in serial killers there. There didn't seem to be a mass murder or lust killer trial in the last decade that she hadn't consulted on - all while returning to Berkeley to teach whenever she was able.

The press clippings, once Nikita began to sort through them, painted a slightly different picture. Amanda Collins was unquestionably - and even scarily - brilliant, but she was also opinionated and pushy and self-righteous. She'd stirred up a great deal of controversy - and quite a bit of animosity - by holding a hardline stance against capital punishment. Her notion of opening up a special Federal Corrections Institute just for felons convicted of serial rape, serial murder, or mass murder - the better to pick their psyches apart - had not won her many friends.

The Daryl Lee Cullum trial seemed to be where it had all really gone south, though. Collins had been working with him extensively for several months before his trial, and Nikita got the impression that Collins had been almost obsessively preoccupied with Cullum. The mistrial had lost her the few friends she had left among law enforcement, though none of them had wished what happened next on her - not when it also cost the life of a good cop, and not even when it let them recapture Cullum.

Still strangely raw from the Lyle crime scene, Nikita just skimmed over most of the info on Cullum's attack. She also refused to waste time speculating on what Amanda Collins had done or become in its aftermath - she was much more interested in the woman Collins had been before that.

And Amanda Collins was very interesting indeed, as Nikita discovered while scrolling through video footage of the last few days of the Cullum trial. The woman was a force of nature on the witness stand - Nikita had seen consultants and expert witnesses break under the badgering of a ruthless defense attorney, but Collins never gave an inch. An intense and formidable woman by any definition, Collins held her own without even trying - Nikita honestly wasn't sure which was more striking, Collin's blue eyes, her voice, or the fierce intelligence behind them both.

The defense attorney tried again and again to tear Collins down, to no avail.

One part of the trial in particular just pissed Nikita off. The defense was trying to damage Collins' credibility by baiting and belittling her while she was on the stand.

"In your evaluation," the defense attorney had begun, "you characterized my client as a sexual sadist because he satisfied four out of the ten criteria of the DSM-IIIR. Is that correct?"

"Yes." Collins' face said that she sensed a trap but couldn't quite see how to avoid it.

"Four out of ten?" The defense attorney shook his head. "That's forty percent. When I was in school, Ms. Collins, forty percent was a failing grade."

The bastard had deliberately ignored Collins' title to discredit her and diminish her authority. Collins hadn't let him get away with it. "It's _Doctor_ Collins. And the DSM-IIIR isn't something you can assign a letter grade to - though I understand if it's not something you're entirely familiar with."

Skipping forward, Nikita watched another block of Collins' testimony. "...Individuals suffering from aural hallucinations hear voices in both ears. The defendant reported that the voices he heard always spoke in only his right ear."

Nikita - impressed and admittedly a little mesmerized - skipped forward again. "...Was not driven by mad impulse. It was - and is - my conclusion that Daryl Lee Cullum meets the M'Naughten rules for sanity. At the time of the murders, he was aware that his actions were both morally wrong and unlawful."

Nikita jumped and scrambled for the pause button as Ari Tasarov suddenly placed a hand on her shoulder. Smiling a little, Tasarov held out the manila envelope he'd brought with him. "Lab results. No sperm, exactly as we expected."

"Surprise, surprise," Nikita sighed, running a hand through her hair. "So we do have a serial killer after all."

"Neither of us said that word," Tasarov reminded her with a frown. "And why are you investigating Amanda Collins?"

Feeling oddly awkward under Tasarov's scrutiny, Nikita just shrugged. "She's been calling. I thought she might be useful."

Tasarov made a face and shook his head, "She's not worth your time. You're better off working the clues."

"What clues?" Nikita demanded, looking around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. "We have no clues and no one here has ever worked a serial case. We need her help."

Tasarov was normally better than most, but even he had his prejudices - though Nikita gave him the benefit of the doubt and assumed his issue was with Collins' behavior at the trial rather than with her being an independent, intelligent woman in typically male field.

Before Tasarov could reply or elaborate, Gigi the clerk materialized out of nowhere. "I'm sorry to interrupt, sir, but the Commissioner is on Line Two."

That seemingly benign statement only added to the churning in Nikita's gut - and completely explained Tasarov's presence there in the library. Bringing her the lab results was go-fer duty - any number of people at the precinct could have been pulled to play fetch and carry.

The fact that Tasarov had brought them to her himself meant that he'd wanted an excuse to talk to her in private - probably to remind her yet again not to let slip that this was a serial case. He wasn't normally one to hide things like that, which meant that he was being pressured by his bosses to keep quiet - probably to present a good face for the Festival Of Love event, regardless of the cost - and was certainly not going to welcome the introduction of a wildcard like Amanda Collins.

The problem was that they needed her help, and badly - or the help of someone like her. She hadn't been exaggerating when she'd pointed out that none of them had ever handled a serial case before. Before she could argue any of this, though, Tasarov turned to head back to his office.

"Work the clues - and forget about Amanda Collins," Tasarov reiterated, then left quickly enough to ensure that his was the last word.

Nikita turned back to find that she'd somehow left the trial video playing. She was just in time to watch the camera pan from Amanda Collins to Daryl Lee Cullum - who grinned pleasantly at Collins as he mimed drawing a knife across his throat.

{*****}

Of all the major cities in America, the City By The Bay was certainly among the most dramatic in its beauty and among the most colorful in its history. Perched atop a mass of hills, the city looked out over both the bay itself and the splendor of the Pacific coast. The famous Golden Gate Bridge - glowing in International Orange as it hovered over the water to the north - connected the city to the green hills of wealthy Marin.

San Francisco was one of the great tourist meccas of this century, and the one before it, and would likely continue to be so on into the next one. Each month alone, thousands were drawn to the exquisite restaurants, amazing opera, and numerous museums - not to mention the famous streetcars, historical North Beach cafes, and the city's exceptional parks.

Haight-Ashbury with its famous Victorian houses had been the birthplace of the hippie movement. The so-called Paris Of The West had inspired authors from Mark Twain to Dashiell Hammett, and had been the home of notorious figures ranging from Charles Manson to Jim Jones to the fictional Harry Callahan.

In short, San Francisco had been a cultural and physical paradise for something like two centuries. It had also been a magnet for death and destruction.

On the morning of April 18th, 1906, an earthquake measuring 8.25 on the Richter scale hit the city. The earthquake destroyed several vital sections of the city and killed many of the inhabitants. The firestorms that afterward finished the job, devastating the wooden city and killing hundreds more. Many of those who survived became refugees in their own country.

Once the fires were out, though, those who called San Francisco home rebuilt her from the ground up. This set the pattern for the ongoing cycle of destruction and renewal that would repeat itself again and again. Some have said that this is the gods warning the city - if so, no one has listened yet. Whether out of love, loyalty, or sheer idiotic stubbornness, the city's residents have refused to give up on her, come hell or high water.

And they've certainly endured both.

On November 28th, 1978, an unbalanced former city supervisor assassinated Mayor George Moscone along with Harvey Milk, the city's first openly gay supervisor. Homophobes and the overly religious might posit a biblical cause to it all, but one thing was certain - from that moment on, a series of plagues and disasters hit the city one after the other, pushing it to the breaking point.

Torrential rains hit northern California in the early 1980s, triggering mudslides that cost lives and destroyed homes. Wildfires swept through the local mountains in 1985, burning thousands of acres of land. Fire struck again in 1991, chasing thousands of Oakland residents from their homes.

This dance of fire and water has continued on into the present day.

The discovery of AIDS in the early 1980s - mistakenly believed at the time to affect only the gay community - hit the city's thriving LGBTQA community hard. Apart from concerns about the illness itself, rampant fear and misinformation further stigmatized an already marginalized community. As if the prejudice and loss of life weren't enough, that fear also served to further damage an already struggling tourism industry.

Then - at 5:04pm on October 17, 1989 - things got even worse. The San Andreas Fault shifted during the middle of a historic World Series game between the San Francisco Giants and the Oakland Athletics. The initial fifteen-second long earthquake that shift produced left a hundred-mile swath of disaster the likes of which had not been seen in California in eighty years.

Buildings shattered and twisted and burned. A fifty foot piece of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge crashed to the deck below it. A mile-long piece of the upper deck of the Nimitz Freeway did the same, crushing cars and passengers.

Not far from Amanda Collin's Fort Mason loft, a large chunk of the Marina District - built on top of a filled-in portion of the bay - imploded. Buildings were shaken off their foundations and fires raged.

At least sixty five people in the San Francisco area died as a result of the quake - over three thousand were injured. Damage estimates were in the billions.

But the point of this grim litany was a simple one: the city survived. With each new disaster, the city rallied and rebuilt. Eventually, the damage was repaired, the ignorant fear of a stigmatized illness faded, and the tourists came back to help the city thrive.

It took the city a while to understand and leverage its historic role in the Sixties beyond tours of the Haight. Local entrepreneurs and city officials saw the profits raked in by things like Woodstock II and other events exploiting the nostalgia for the 1960s and 1970s, and started looking for ways to claim their share.

The Festival Of Love - two years in the making, advertised and hyped beyond all reason - was the latest of these enterprises.

The last thing anyone wanted - or needed - now was a serial killer turning it in the city's next disaster.

{*****}

Doctor Amanda Collins sat in the den watching television - or pretending to - as she idly picked at the fabric on the cushion of her chair. She was wearing something other than a nightgown and robe, for a change, but the loose sweater and jeans and messy ponytail were still a far cry from the designer wardrobe and perfectly coiffed hair she'd once worn like some sort of armor.

The sound of a familiar footstep in the kitchen pulled her onto her feet and into the other room. "Finally! Where have you been?"

"Nice to see you too!" Balancing a set of bulky grocery bags, Alexandra Udinov couldn't do much more than make a face in response to Amanda's fussing.

Alex - a pretty, blue-eyed brunette in her early twenties - set her bags down and went over to give Amanda a hug. The way Amanda held on just a tad longer normal - not to mention the earlier grumbling - told Alex that it had been a rough few days during her absence, even though Amanda had known exactly where she was and could have reached her at any time.

The two women were really the only family they had left - and were family by choice rather than blood. Alex had been orphaned at thirteen after her parents died in a car accident, and Amanda - a family friend and Alex's godmother - had found herself the unlikely legal guardian of a teenaged ward. Somehow, though, it had worked for them - Amanda had had surprisingly little trouble showing Alex the warmth and affection she seldom gave anyone else, and Alex, in turn, had gotten to see a side of Amanda Collins that no one else ever really had.

Granted, these last thirteen months had been hell on both of them - Alex, for her part, was just happy Amanda was still alive and insisted she could handle anything that Amanda's recovery process threw her way. Alex made it all mesh together somehow, balancing college with looking after - in Amanda's own words - 'a medicated diva with a PhD and an acute anxiety disorder.'

If asked, Alex simply joked that occasionally being able to get the upper hand with Amanda for a change had done wonders to strengthen their relationship. (Amanda, for her part, just rolled her eyes - and laughed, if it was one of her good days.)

Alex started moving around the kitchen, making small talk as she moved around the kitchen. "I had the top down on the car driving home. It's like seventy degrees out there right now, and the breeze off Ghirardelli Square smells like chocolate."

The kitchen they stood in featured the same blond wood found throughout the apartment, and had an array of electronic gadgets that rivaled the study. They mostly sat idle these days - Amanda had tried to continue cooking for herself at first, but medication and alcohol were an unforgiving combination, and she'd eventually stopped trying.

Alex kept the kitchen - with its various high-quality pots, pans, and utensils - as spotless as Amanda always had before, and quietly looked forward to the day when Amanda would be recovered enough to take back over the kitchen she loved.

The twang of a rubber band snapping repeatedly filled the silence once Alex stopped talking, and she stopped putting away groceries to get a good look at Amanda. There was no disguising Amanda's underlying agitation from her familiar eyes, and she walked over to put a hand on Amanda's shoulder. "Hey, what happened?"

They'd fought bitterly before Alex's brief trip - Amanda's need for at least some small semblance of autonomy pitting itself up against Alex's concerns at leaving Amanda alone for several days - but it had all seemed settled, and Amanda had even been genuinely excited about the short seminar Alex had been invited to attend.

Amanda couldn't quite meet Alex's eyes, though that in itself didn't always mean much given Amanda's fierce pride. "I had another nightmare. Do you think you could call and check...?"

"Amanda..." Alex hesitated, not sure whether to indulge the other woman or insist she face her anxieties by making the call herself.

"If a three-year-old tells you that there's a monster under the bed-" Amanda began.

"You look," Alex finished, having heard this particular statement many, many times. "I know, I know - you're three years old, and you need me to check for you."

Amanda sniffled a little, and looked so adorably petulant about the sniffling that Alex couldn't help smiling and pulling her in for another hug. "It'll be okay."

She got a good look at Amanda's hair as they parted and made a disapproving noise. "The clothes are better than usual but the hair..."

Amanda actually chuckled a little. "Is still a mess, I know. Maybe you can do something with it later while we watch your shows."

Alex was about to make a teasing retort about Amanda only pretending disinterest in prime-time programming when the doorbell rang unexpectedly. Amanda froze at the sound repeated, eyes wide and panicked. "Alex..."

Taking Amanda's hand, Alex stretched the other to reach the nearby intercom. "Who is it?"

A woman's voice answered. "Detective Inspector Mears and Detective Inspector Elliott with the San Francisco Police Department. Is Doctor Collins available?'

Amanda leapt from alarmed to just short of hyperventilating, and Alex forced her to sit down in one of the kitchen chairs. "I have to go see what they need - it could be important. You stay in this chair and do your breathing exercises. I'll be right back, I promise."

Alex hurried to the door as quickly as she could. Checking the security display near the front door, she saw a small, dark-haired woman and a man with spiky sandy blonde hair. They both fairly screamed plainclothes detective, but she wasn't taking any chances. "Let me see your badges first."

They didn't question the command, given via intercom, and had no trouble spotting the security camera in order to hold their badges in front of it. Everything looked legit, so Alex let them into the foyer. "Can I help you?"

The woman spoke first. "I'm Inspector Mears. I need to speak with Doctor Collins. Is she available?"

"This is... not a good time," Alex finally said, after taking a moment to weigh her answer. "If you tell me what this about, and leave your card, I can-"

"He's escaped again," Amanda's voice came suddenly from behind Alex. "Hasn't he?"

Nikita, caught off guard by Amanda Collins' sudden entrance - and by the dramatic change in her appearance - just blinked in confusion. "I'm sorry-?"

Irritation and impatience flashed across Collins' face, giving Nikita a glimpse of the woman she'd seen in the video files. "Daryl Lee Cullum. I'm assuming you're here because something has happened with him. Has he escaped?"

Nikita understood the question well enough now, and felt bad for further alarming the other woman. "I'm sorry - I don't have any information on Daryl Lee Cullum. I'm here to talk to you about the calls you've been making to our precinct."

"What calls would those be? I'm not in the habit of randomly calling police precincts." Amanda's feigned confusion would have fooled anyone but Alex, who could also tell that Amanda was not as recovered from her earlier attack as she was pretending.

"Why don't we take this into the living room," Alex interrupted. "I think everyone will be a little more comfortable there."

Alex marshaled everyone into the correct room and got them situated, mainly by sheer force of will. It was a trick she'd learned from the best - namely, Amanda Collins herself. The inspectors declined her offer of something to drink, but Amanda requested a glass of water - to which Alex mentally tagged a request for a dose of her medication.

Amanda seemed a little calmer by the time Alex returned, but she still took the pill along with the water. Something in her eyes challenged the detectives to think less of her for needing it, but neither of them even really seemed to pay it much attention.

Their attention was focused on the phone calls Amanda had apparently been making for several days.

Inspector Mears didn't seem especially convinced by Amanda's denials of the phone calls, or especially interested in helping Amanda maintain them - it made Alex like her a little already. "I know you've been calling my precinct, Doctor Collins. We spoke just this morning - you do remember that, I hope?"

Amanda sighed, a flash of irritation on her face at being challenged while unable to win. "Of course I remember. There's nothing wrong with my memory."

Something in Mears' eyes as she nodded in acknowledgment said she was pondering exactly what was wrong with Amanda, but was too sensitive to say as much. "If you like - before we get started - I can call and confirm Daryl Lee Cullum's whereabouts for you."

It was clearly a peace offering - and perhaps an apology for inadvertently adding to Amanda's anxiety - but only the fact the it was offered out of sympathy that held no pity whatsoever kept Amanda from bristling at it. Well, that and the fact that she could look at it as having regained the upper hand a little. "Please do."

A few minutes later, Amanda had her confirmation that Cullum was still securely behind bars. She also had her confirmation that Mears, for whatever reason, didn't seem to view her as something broken and pitiable - those brown eyes still held only understanding.

Amanda was finding those eyes very hard to look away from, actually - it had been a very long time since anyone except Alex had looked Amanda directly in the eye without an undercurrent of pity or disappointment that made her want to slap them across the face.

Mears' partner Inspector Elliot wasn't doing a bad job in that regard either, but he seemed much more interested in the fact that Amanda and his partner couldn't - or wouldn't - break eye contact. Still, business was business, and he cleared his throat to get everyone's attention. "So, Doctor Collins - you called us. There something you want us to know?"

Amanda considered the question a moment. What had she expected her call to accomplish? "I - I honestly don't know that there is."

Smiling a little ruefully, she did her best to explain herself. "I called because I don't understand why the San Francisco Police Department insists on hiding the truth."

A sharp glance between the two Inspectors told Amanda that she'd struck a nerve. Something in that shared glance also gave the lead back to Inspector Mears. "What do you mean?"

"Please." Amanda couldn't help rolling her eyes. "There's a serial killer at work, right here, right now, in San Francisco. Don't you think the public has the right to know?"

Another shared glance, another confirmation that Inspector Mears was still running the interview. "Even if there were a connection of some sort between the three cases, nothing conclusive has been released to the press. What makes you think they're connected?"

There was flash of the old Amanda then - the one that Alex hadn't seen in over a year now - as she stared directly into the Inspector's eyes. "I don't know. Twenty years of experience and twenty years of serial killers on the brain?"

Oddly, the scathing sarcasm in that statement made Mears smile a little. It also apparently helped her make the decision she'd been weighing since the phone call earlier. "Doctor Collins, would you be willing to consult with us on this? I hate to admit it, but we're a little out of our depth here."

"Absolutely not." The sudden ice in Amanda's tone got everyone's attention - though only Alex picked up on the note of panic under it all. "I'm damaged goods - we all know it, so I may as well say it. That's why I retired."

Mears wasn't buying it. "'Retired' doesn't have you calling the station fourteen times. I really think you could help us here - we can keep your name out of it, I promise."

Amanda looked over at Elliot. "Does she she try this wide-eyed routine often?"

Elliot just smirked a little. "All the time."

Amanda couldn't help a slight smile at that, despite her irritation. "And does it actually work?"

The smirk widened into a grin. "Most of the time. Never works when I try it, though."

Mears opened her mouth to jump in, but Amanda cut her off. "Don't bother with the usual song and dance, Inspector. Even if you do happen to know me well enough to actually admire me and my work, I can't help you. I won't help you."

"Fine. " Mears' tone indicated that she was running out of patience. "If you won't help me, then help them."

She set a file folder on the coffee table between them, jostling it a little in the process. Crime scene photographs and autopsy reports spilled out and Amanda fought not to visibly recoil from them as a sudden flood of panic threatened to overwhelm her. "No. Not here."

Looking a little confused, Elliot tried to smooth things over. "We can go to the station, if it'll be more comfortable. I'll even drive, if you want."

It was exactly the wrong thing to say - though the Inspectors couldn't possibly have known that - and before Alex could intervene, Amanda had jumped straight to hyperventilating. Ignoring Mears and Elliot, she moved to get Amanda out of the room before she passed out completely - Alex's only concession to their visitors' presence was an unspoken command to stay right where they were until she got back.

Amanda insisted on going upstairs to her room, so it took a little longer than Alex had intended, but both Mears and Elliot were still there waiting on her. Elliot was still sitting on one of the chairs, waiting calmly, but Mears was pacing, looking genuinely upset but not quite understanding what had gone wrong.

As soon as she saw Alex, she stepped toward her. "Is Doctor Collins okay? Do you need us to call anyone?"

"The files triggered a panic attack," Alex said simply and without shame or apology. "She's agoraphobic, too, so the offer to go to the station just made it worse."

Elliot swore softly and Mears winced in embarrassment. "That wasn't our intention."

Alex shrugged - it wasn't like they could have known. "The attack will pass. Just... walk softly when you work with her."

Mears looked a little startled at that, but Alex just grinned. "She hasn't left this apartment in over a year. She's bored and restless and needs something productive to do - that's why she called you."

She held out her hand to Mears, gesturing at the file folder the Inspector still held. "If you really want her to look at those, leave them with me. I'll make sure she gets them."

Mears hesitated for a moment, then handed the file over along with a business card. "Only if it won't cause any trouble, you understand?"

Alex nodded then escorted them out into the hallway. Neither detective said a word to the other on the long walk to the elevator, or the ride down to the ground floor.

"Fuck," Owen said once they were safely in the car. "We blew that one big time."

Nikita said nothing. There was nothing she could have said to make Owen understand how terrifying it was to see another woman so completely broken because of a man...

High up above the car and its occupants - several stories up in a building catty corner to Amanda Collins' apartment - another man stood in a darkened room, his expensive new camcorder trained through a window onto the parking lot below. The camcorder had all the latest bells and whistles, and had cost the man a pretty penny.

After the detectives drove away, the man trained the camcorder back onto his original location, panning up from the parking lot and over to the side. Once night fell, he'd have a clear, perfect view into Doctor Amanda Collins' apartment.


	4. Chapter Three

Once the panic attack subsided, exhaustion - and the effects of her medication - sent Amanda right off to sleep. It was a long nap for her - a good two hours - but Alex figured she needed it and let her sleep. In the meantime, she busied herself tidying up the study and paying a few bills online.

Alex went to organize Amanda's desk - the working clutter was just shy of becoming unmanageable - and stumbled across a photo album full of old pictures that Amanda must have been sorting through. The fact that they were in an album struck her as odd, until she realized that they had to be Amanda's personal family photos.

Amanda did not have a single framed photo of her family anywhere in the apartment - there were copious photos and collages of her and Alex together over the years, and a few of Alex's parents, even a few of Alex as a baby, but that wasn't at all what Alex had been talking about whenever she'd asked about the lack of mementos.

Alex hesitated for a moment as she stared at the album, weighing the potential invasion of Amanda's privacy against the need to know what Amanda had been looking at - not to mention her own personal curiosity. Deciding to open the album - she'd deal with Amanda's anger later, if need be - and flipped through a series of both color and black and white photos spanning decades.

The pictures were in chronological order, exactly as she'd expect Amanda to have arranged them, and it wasn't hard to flip through them until she got to the pictures of Amanda's mother. Even if the images hadn't been neatly labeled - also as expected - the resemblance between mother and daughter would have immediately identified Caroline Harrington Collins.

There were also images of Amanda's father, Major Matthew Collins. He had the same imperious - and sometimes even cruel - expression that Alex had sometimes seen in Amanda herself. The military uniform he was typically photographed wearing did little to soften his image - and the blank, defeated look often seen on his wife's face in later photos would have told the ugly story there even if Alex hadn't known it.

From 1969 through the late 1980s, Amanda - smiling and happy, at least in the earlier photos - was generally pictured beside a girl who could have been - and in fact was - her twin sister. They were identical in every way, though Alex felt she could easily pick out Amanda. By the end, though, she had no trouble telling Amanda from her sister - the other Collins daughter had grown unhealthily skinny by then, red hair lank and blue eyes gaunt.

It was an unnerving contrast to the images of a thriving, healthy, vibrant Amanda during her adolescence and early adulthood - especially when Alex weighed the images against the Amanda of the last year or so.

{*****}

The revelation of Amanda's family history to Alex was a fairly recent thing. Amanda had made no secret that her family history was an unhappy one she'd rather not dwell on, but it had only been well into Alex's sophomore year at college that she'd seen fit to share the sordid details.

The copious amounts of wine she and Alex had consumed that night had probably also had something to do with it, but that was neither here nor there.

Caroline Harrington - later Collins - had been an artist and painter of no little ability, something she'd passed on to Amanda's sister. She was also a debutante from a Southern society family with a good name and very little money. What little they had left was spent on Caroline's debut, in hopes of marrying her off to a young man from an equally good and far wealthier family.

As one might expect from her high intelligence and artistic leanings, though, Caroline had been something of a free, rebellious spirit. None of the men her family considered appropriate choices had really interested her or could even come close to 'taming' her.

When she discovered the emerging hippie movement during a trip to California, her parents had decided it was time for drastic action - for Caroline's own good, and the good of the family. They sent her to Paris to live with an older cousin, hoping that travel and the indulgence of her love of painting might be enough to finally get the Bohemian out of her system.

It worked, after a fashion.

Matthew Collins graduated Harvard summa cum laude in 1960 and went directly into the Army. He was everything the Harrington family had been searching for - he was from a wealthy family of acceptable pedigree, as well as handsome, charismatic, and well-educated.

Somehow, he'd managed to get the Army to send him to medical school abroad, where he also completed his residency in psychiatry while adding schools like Cambridge and Oxford to his resume. During that time, he apparently fell in love with Europe and did everything he could to stay stationed there.

In January 1969, he made his usual weekend trip over to Paris, where he met a free-spirited American girl who spoke Parisian French with the most adorable Southern drawl. The girl - Caroline Harrington - was pregnant before the weekend ended.

A hasty but lavish wedding in Richmond was the only obvious solution for Caroline's predicament - which Caroline went along with despite her doubts. The newly married Mr. and Mrs. Matthew Collins then moved into a Park Avenue apartment in Manhattan, where Matthew Collins had gotten a teaching fellowship at Columbia. Amanda and her sister Helen were born that October, a mere six months after the wedding.

Caroline's secret, unspoken doubts had proved well-founded - her spirit was broken in frighteningly short order by a difficult birth, the myriad stresses of mothering twin daughters, and marriage to a man she had apparently never really known at all. Matthew Collins, also in very short order, showed himself to be jealous, autocratic, verbally abusive, and pathologically narcissistic.

Caroline started drinking heavily before her daughters were even a year old.

Matthew noticed his eldest daughter's intelligence early on - or perhaps simply assumed it and was lucky enough to be correct - and determined that she would follow in his footsteps as his intellectual heir. Amanda, by the age of twelve, was already on a steady diet of Plato, Descartes, Kant, Hegel, and Kierkegaard - and that didn't include the various biology and science textbooks she was expected to study in her spare time.

Amanda and her sister were also expected to engage in dialectics three times a week after they had completed their regular school assignments. They would convene in their father's study, where he would assign them opposing sides on whatever issue had caught his fancy.

The girls were then expected to present their arguments over dinner the following night.

This was not a problem for Amanda, who might even have enjoyed the exercise under different circumstances. Helen Collins, however, took after her mother Caroline - she was every bit as intelligent as her sister Amanda, but that intelligence expressed itself through art and music. The cold, rigorous logic demanded by Matthew Collins was foreign to her, and she never caught the hang of it.

Amanda loved her sister and did everything she could to help. She would coach Helen in secret to help her prepare for the next day - if all else failed, she risked her father's wrath by pretending to be unprepared, or by deliberately sabotaging her own argument.

Matthew Collins was too smart to be fooled for long, however. He raged at Helen for her 'intellectual inferiority' and punished her in every way he could think of - Amanda's compassion for Helen only added to his fury, and he took that out on Helen as well.

Even Caroline could see how damaging the situation was, and shook off her alcoholism long enough to try to help her daughters. It was no use, though - the debates didn't end until thirteen-year-old Helen ran away to live in Central Park for several days. Once the police located her and returned her to her parents, she was shipped off to a boarding school - Matthew had meant it as a punishment for humiliating him, but it ended up being the best thing for all of them.

Not that the peace it brought lasted very long.

Amanda despised her father with every fiber of her being, but she was truly his intellectual heir. She feared him as much as she hated him, but couldn't keep herself from fighting to win his approval. She loved her mother, too, but couldn't see Caroline's drinking and passivity as anything other than weakness to be ashamed of.

Even before things had reached their breaking point, Amanda had assumed the role of protector and mediator. She spent countless hours lying awake at night trying to anticipate the next crisis so that she could figure out how to avoid it. This was the very beginning of her career as a psychologist - staring up at the ceiling in her bedroom, trying to read her family's thoughts, to dream their dreams.

Her attempts to keep the peace also instilled a relentless perfectionism into her. No one - not even her father - would ever be as hard on her as she was on herself.

Helen Collins, unfortunately, had also inherited her mother's weak spirit and addictive tendencies. She died of a drug overdose before ever seeing her nineteenth birthday.

By that time, Amanda was in her first year at Barnard, the women's college of Columbia - exactly as her father had planned. She'd fought bitterly to go to Radcliffe instead, but Matthew Collins fought even harder to keep her in sight and under his thumb. An arch-conservative - odd for a Columbia faculty member - he also had a streak of paranoia that left him convinced the world would warp his daughter into some sort of hippie radical if given half a chance.

Ironically enough, it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Amanda had inherited Caroline's rebellious streak, and her bitterness over her father's heavy-handedness amplified it a thousand-fold. She became one of the prominent voices in campus unrest, at one point even helping to occupy one of the campus' administration buildings - that was the day she met Percival Rose, a graduate student and fellow radical. He had a mesmeric intensity to him that attracted her both mentally and physically, and she wasted no time acting on that attraction.

They were both arrested the next day, and no detail of the incident had escaped Matthew Collin's notice. Enraged, he threw Amanda out and forbade her to ever come back. She returned the slight by eloping with Percival - or Percy, as he preferred to be called - the day after Helen Collins' funeral.

They moved clear across the country so that could Amanda could start her graduate work at Berkeley. While Amanda lost herself in her psychology studies, Percy occupied himself by delving deeper and deeper into his already radical politics.

Percy eventually affiliated himself with increasingly questionable political groups. He never directly planted a bomb or fired a gun, but his name and his face were always out there on the periphery, tying him to those who had.

Amanda tried to ignore it all, choosing instead to immerse herself in her studies - she was enjoying herself immensely, all but obsessed with forensic psychology. It wasn't long, though, before Percy's behavior became impossible to overlook - she honestly couldn't have cared less about Percy's constant cheating with his groupies, but their home had become a haven and halfway house for fugitive and decidedly dangerous members of various radical groups. Their phones were being tapped, and the endless visits by various law enforcement agencies were becoming depressingly routine.

Amanda filed for divorce from Percival Rose after five years of marriage, part of her wondering if she had ever really loved him at all. Percy hadn't even blinked when she handed him the divorce papers, much less protested her filing of them. They still ran into each other occasionally - last time she'd seen him, he was newly remarried and slowly working his way up the ladder of mainstream politics, having somehow managed to escape his radical past.

Amanda, for her part, had never remarried. Oh, she'd dated plenty, but only a few relationships had even managed to become memorable, much less serious - and every one of those serious relationships had ended in heartache. There had been a torrid affair with a married professor that she still felt ashamed of herself for. There had also been an FBI agent down at Quantico during her time there - a woman, though that was hardly a new development for Amanda.

She'd honestly surprised herself with the depth of her feelings for Carla Bennett, and even allowed herself to envision a future for them, She'd had to call it off once it became clear that the relationship would never survive their divergent career paths, or their conflicting politics, and a part of her had never truly healed from that breakup.

Rather than wallow in grief, she'd thrown herself back into her work, becoming more obsessed than ever with serial killers and getting to the root of their sickness. The regret she felt over Carla Bennett - one of the few regrets she allowed herself - had been easy enough to ignore with teaching and research and writing to occupy her mind.

Even so, no matter how content she seemed to be, there were still days that she looked into the mirror and saw Matthew Collins staring back at her. Those were the days she she started drinking early.

{*****}

Amanda finally opened her eyes when Alex popped her head into the bedroom to check on her. Seeing her finally awake, Alex came over to sit beside her on the bed, not saying a word as Amanda shifted to lay her head on the pillow Alex had placed in her lap.

Alex just stroked Amanda's hair without saying a word, allowing Amanda some space and silence as she tried to sift through her foggy recollection of the earlier police visit. Grudgingly admitting to herself that alcohol and prescription drugs did terrible things to her faculties, Amanda finally just asked the one person present who did remember. "How bad was it?"

"Not bad," Alex assured her. "I got you out of there before anything major happened."

Amanda thought of Inspector Mears and sighed in relief. "Oh, thank god."

She'd worry later about why she felt such a sudden need to impress a total stranger...

Alex just chuckled, though she also displayed her uncanny knack for following Amanda's unspoken train of thought. "I wouldn't worry too much about it. She'll be back."

"I don't know what you mean," Amanda replied, feeling vaguely adolescent - and therefore ridiculous - even as she said it.

Alex jabbed her lightly in the ribs, a common gesture of playful affection from her. "You know exactly what - or who - I mean. Detective Inspector Nikita Mears. I saw the way you two were looking at each other - admit it, you were wondering if she's into wearing her handcuffs."

There were times that Amanda regretted having raised Alex to speak her mind - generally when that mind was directed at her, of course - but this time she couldn't help but laugh. She'd been wondering no such thing about the Inspector, but there had been a time where part of her would have been.

The laughter turned into a sob, which then turned into a hiccup as the worst of the remaining anxiety receded and Amanda began to regain what little balance she had left these days. "Is it possible that I actually miss dating?"

Alex chuckled again. "You hate dating. You miss sex."

That was as accurate an assessment as any Amanda herself had ever made, and couldn't help smiling a little. "Touche."

She'd had many lovers of varying gender identities, and made no secret of it - not to Alex, not to anyone else who had reason to discuss her sex life with her - but she also had to concede that her current dry spell had started long before she'd become housebound. Work had taken precedence over everything else - except Alex, of course - long before the attack.

Alex, for her part, hadn't seen Amanda look at someone the way she'd looked at the Inspector in... well, ever, though that was probably exaggerating. A subtle push to explore that attraction didn't seem like a bad idea - she'd just have to keep an eye on things to make sure nothing went too sideways. "You know, the Inspector left her card. Maybe you could call her, invite her back over."

Amanda could read between any lines Alex cared to draw, had been able to for years, and stiffened as she flashed back to what little she could recall of that damned file. "Alex..."

"I mean it," Alex insisted. "it's not being housebound that's killing you - it's being housebound with nothing to keep you busy. You called the station fourteen times, Amanda - because helping the cops solve cases like that one is what you do and you can't just ignore that."

Amanda just sighed. "Not anymore. And not after what happened earlier."

Alex pondered that for a moment. "You were already having a bad day and you weren't prepared for those crime scene photos. The folder's still here - take a look at them while you're actually prepared and see what happens."

She teasingly poked Amanda in the ribs one last time. "Besides, one of us has to pay the bills."

There had never been any danger of a money shortage, of course, but it made Amanda laugh a little, and that had been the whole point. That, and it made her think about how nice it might be to work again...

{*****}

It was now 8:45pm - the dead end of the shift - and Detective Inspector Nikita Mears sat hunched over her desk, studying photographs of women too close to her own age for comfort.

Lost in thought, she blew a lock of hair out of her face and started chewing on a nail. One leg was bouncing up and down under the desk, and she was hunched over enough that her hair was brushing the edges of the files spread across her desk.

It gave her the air of a schoolgirl pouring over her homework - a rare moment of distraction and vulnerability that made the man watching her smile.

Oblivious to the fact that she was being observed, Nikita grabbed a different set of photos - printouts of the crowd around Jennifer Lyle's apartment in Potrero Hills. She was so wrapped up in analyzing them that the sudden appearance of someone beside her startled her enough to instinctively reach for her gun.

Fortunately for Michael Bishop, her gun was currently locked in her desk drawer, out of her reach. Holding his hands up, he smiled apologetically. "It's just me."

She glared at him. "You startled me."

Michael didn't bother to point out that the annoyed glare was just as adorable as it had always been - he didn't have the right to, not anymore. Instead, he settled onto a clear corner of her desk. "I was about to grab dinner. You need anything?"

Nikita just shook her head. "Owen's on a food run already. Should be back any minute."

Then Michael looked down at the photos and files scattered across her desk, and weighed how long she'd been sitting there pouring over them. "You okay?"

She blew out a breath and closed her eyes. "Yeah. I just - talk to me about something happy, okay?"

Michael grinned. "Cassandra and I got our new place - we pick up the keys next week. Hayley and Max'll finally both have their own rooms."

"That's great!" Nikita teased. "But please tell me you also have room for a nursery. You're gonna need it here pretty soon."

Michael's smile widened at the thought of the new baby. "Just a few more weeks now. That reminds me - Cassandra wants me to invite you to the baby shower. I've got the invitation at my desk."

The moment suddenly turned awkward and uncomfortable, and Nikita's easy smile fled. "I don't really think I should..."

Michael shifted and reached out to touch Nikita's arm. "I already told you - she likes you. She doesn't care that we were together before, and it would mean a lot to her..."

That same wayward lock of hair had fallen back into Nikita's face, and he automatically reached out to move it. His fingers slid down the length of it - something they'd done a hundred times in the past - and they both froze as something suddenly sparked to life between them.

They both jumped apart as if scalded as Owen suddenly came walking back into the bullpen with dinner. He didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary - or maybe just did a good job of pretending he didn't - as he set a takeout bag on Nikita's desk. "Veggie burger, with sweet potato fries. Also got you an extra sweet iced tea."

Owen took the other bag to own desk. "I got an extra burger if you're hungry, Mikey."

Michael shook his head and muttered something about having just been on the way to get something for himself. Then he hurried out of the bullpen, not even bothering to be subtle about it.

Owen just looked at the door, then back at his partner. "Niki..."

"Don't start," Nikita told him, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. "He wasn't trying anything - it was just one of those weird moments."

The look on Owen's face when she finally opened her eyes again made his estimation of her ability to keep from getting re-entangled with Michael Bishop perfectly clear - and considering what he'd walked in on just a few minutes earlier, Nikita was inclined to think that that estimation was probably spot on...

{*****}

At 8:50pm - while Nikita sat at her desk pondering the complexities of her (former) love life - Amanda Collins was sitting at her own desk in her study. Her computer was booted up and unlocked, but she was ignoring her email client in favor of staring at a nearby statue.

The statue was a small, abstract bronze casting of a woman, her arms reaching up toward the heavens. The figure was molded but not smoothed, leaving the piece with the rough, unfinished look of fingers pressed into clay. There was a certain earthy gutsiness to the piece as well - the woman seemed to be more a priestess conducting a rite than a mere mortal begging for divine assistance - and Amanda had fallen in love with it the moment she'd first seen it.

Staring at the figure's generous curves and confident pose, Amanda was reminded yet again of why she kept that particular piece in clear, easy view of the one place in her apartment she spent the most time in. Tonight - like so many other nights and days over the last year - she felt oddly compelled to reach out and touch the cool bronze, tracing out the sculptor's lines.

And just like every other time, she pulled up just short of actually touching the piece, something in her recoiling from the action. In quieter, calmer moments - like the current one - she understood quite clearly that it was because she no longer felt worthy to touch the statue that she'd always viewed as a symbol of her inner strength.

The file folder left by Nikita Mears caught her peripheral vision as she shifted her gaze to another, less painful focus. That momentary flash of manila was enough to bump her heart rate up a notch or two - which wasn't the least bit surprising - but something was different this time.

There was still the fear - that wasn't going to go away for a long while, if ever - only this time, there was also the faintest hint of her old passion and excitement underneath it...

Amanda stood up and went to pour herself a generous helping of cognac. Putting on her glasses - she wasn't going to bother with her contacts in her own home - she picked up the file and opened it. A couple minutes later, she reached for a notepad and pen. An hour - and another helping of cognac - later, her nerves were still surprising steady and she'd filled two pages with notes penned in her small, careful script.

It wasn't much - not compared to the sort of work she'd been known for in the past - but it was enough to leave her with a sense of satisfied accomplishment she hadn't felt in over a year. A satisfaction that faded a little as she caught sight of her bedraggled reflection in her monitor screen - sighing, she decided to head upstairs and soak in the tub, something she hadn't done in a good long while.

On the way up, she stopped to close a set of open blinds that neither she nor Alex had bothered to remember. There was a faint noise under the whir of the electric blinds, though, and she froze. not quite sure she'd heard it. She called out to Alex, but got no answer after a few tries - Alex obviously hadn't gotten home yet. Refusing to be cowed in her own home - especially at this particular moment - Amanda forced herself to dismiss the random noise, and moved on to her bedroom as she'd intended.

Once there, she stood in her closet looking between her dresser and the clothes hanging neatly in a row near it. It was late enough that she could easily justify changing back into her pajamas after her bath, but she found that she honestly didn't want to. Something had shifted inside her today - something good, she hoped - and she was actually surprisingly eager to get back to that police file to see if she could add to her initial notes.

Smiling without even realizing it, Amanda quickly selected a crisp white button down shirt and a pair of black slacks, accompanied by a bra and panty set that had once been a favorite but hadn't been worn in many, many months. She also decided - very much like her old self would have - that she didn't want to waste time soaking in the tub when she had work to do, and so a hot shower would have to suffice.

None of which meant, of course, that she didn't stay in the shower just a little longer than was strictly necessary. She left the water just as hot as she could stand it, but not so much in one of her usual neurotic attempts to wash away the memory of the attack as in an attempt to wash away the mental fog that seemed to surround her these days. Tonight, for once, it actually worked - by the time she shut the water off, she felt much more like herself than she could remember having felt in ages.

That lasted just long enough for her to walk out of her bathroom and back into her bedroom. The shirt and slacks she'd laid out were gone now, replaced by the red dress she'd been wearing the day Daryl Lee Cullum had attacked her. A different bra and panty set had been laid out as well, and Amanda quickly began sifting back through the day, trying to work out if the combination of panic attacks, medication, and alcohol could have led her to dissociate badly enough to set out the wrong clothes without realizing it.

Ultimately, she couldn't decide if it had or not. Unwilling to let anything ruin the progress she'd made in the last couple hours, Amanda just put everything back where it belonged - though she decided to save the shirt and slacks for tomorrow and chose a favorite set of silk pajamas instead.

Forcibly clearing her mind of everything except the case she was working, Amanda made her way downstairs and back to the study. Suddenly hungry as well, she stopped in the kitchen along the way, forgoing her usual steady diet of cognac for real food and some sparkling water.

A couple of hours later, she'd filled up several more pages with notes, and decided she'd done all she could do that night. Reaching for Nikita Mears' business card, she felt a long forgotten zing of anticipation as she dialed the number on it - even if it was just Mears' voicemail. "Inspector Mears? This is Amanda Collins. I apologize for calling so late, but I wanted to let you know that I've looked over the file you left and will be free in the morning if you and Inspector Elliot want to come by and discuss it."

Smiling to herself again - again without even realizing it - she heard Alex at the front door and went to say good night before they both headed to bed.

Amanda slept better that night than she had since before the attack.

{*****}

Nikita Mears - who'd realized halfway home that she'd forgotten her cell phone on her desk, and decided that it could stay there until morning - was indulging in a rare moment of regret and angst as she pondered some of her less laudable life choices on the drive home.

The moment with Michael Bishop had rattled her more than she'd let on, and that had somehow combined with the stress of the investigation to put her into the sort of melancholy funk she normally avoided like the plague.

The gloomy and perpetually fog-shrouded appearance of her Sunset District neighborhood suited her unusually well tonight. The fog-diffused street lights leached away a good deal of the color, but Nikita tried to focus on the bright colors of the houses she was driving by - they were all painted bright, happy pastel colors like white, pink, green, and baby blue, as if in defiance of the neighborhoods perpetual lack of good sunlight.

The random flashes of color here and there as she wound through the streets near her home struck her as just that - defiant, and refusing to surrender - and the thought managed to buoy her mood at least a little. She wasn't exactly smiling by the time she got the front door to her small two-bedroom house unlocked, but she was no longer scowling or glowering either.

Kicking off her shoes in the entryway - after locking her door behind herself, of course - Nikita moved into her living room, dumping her suit jacket and briefcase onto one of the living room chairs. The high-end stereo system - one of her few indulgences - called to her tonight even more than usual, and she cranked the volume up while simultaneously hitting shuffle.

She hit the pause button just as quickly as Joan Jett's 'I Hate Myself For Loving You' suddenly filled the silence. She quickly switched over to something a little more soothing - and less annoyingly apropos - and the sounds of classical music followed her into her kitchen.

The bulb in the fridge flared, popped, and died when she opened the fridge door, but it didn't really matter much - the fridge was depressingly empty anyway. She hadn't had time to go shopping in the last few days, and would have to finally bite the bullet tomorrow once she broke free from the station. For now, she had the last dregs of her usual assortment of fresh produce - a little brown and/or overripe now, but still perfectly serviceable - and several bottles of beer that Owen had left the last time he'd been over.

The beer was tempting - very tempting, actually - but Nikita weighed the potential ramifications of indulging in alcohol given the mess she was currently mired in at work, and decided against it. Instead, she scarfed down a hastily-prepared salad and went to change into her exercise togs.

Another change of music later - to something of a more appropriate mood and tempo - and Nikita was now running through her favorite yoga workout. It normally let her detach her thoughts from whatever was bugging her or stressing her out, but tonight it just left her mind free to wander.

Trying to stay positive, she let her thoughts turn toward her sister in San Jose, who had called earlier to let Nikita know that she was now pregnant with her third child. Nikita's brother-in-law was a nice enough guy - sweet and attentive, if a little bland - but something about the notion of life in suburbia with a husband and 2.5 kids was as foreign to Nikita as the life of a homicide cop was to her sister.

Thinking of babies and houses and suburbia only led her back to Michael, and the awkward moment back at the station. She liked to think that nothing else would have come of it even if Owen hadn't interrupted, but couldn't lie to herself well enough to be completely certain. That just pissed her off - on top of everything else she was already annoyed and/or pissed off over to start with - and made her long for just one day where she didn't have to navigate the minefield that was her professional relationship with Michael Bishop.

And it _had_ been professional, at least at first. She had found him cute enough, and an excellent detective, but he was married and their assignment as partners was only temporary. Things had turned awkward fast, though, as hours spent working together had made him much more attractive than she would ever have initially guessed - he understood her, just _got_ what made her tick, and he didn't even blink at the notion of a female cop wanting to make detective.

The tension between them had simmered and simmered, but they somehow managed to keep it from reaching a full boil for four long years, even after she'd made detective and been assigned to the same squad - until the night he'd turned up at her doorstep and informed her that his wife Elizabeth had filed for divorce, and for sole custody of their daughter Hayley.

He was angry, and grieving, and in pain, and she'd known what would happen even as she let into the house - her offer to make him some coffee had sounded lame even to her ears, but they'd gone into her tiny kitchen anyway. There hadn't been any coffee to speak of - she never drank the stuff, preferring tea instead - but it hadn't mattered.

He'd come up behind her, reaching up and over her to pull something off a shelf she couldn't get to, and the spark of close physical proximity had finally ignited the sexual heat between them. She hadn't been able to bring herself to push him away - hadn't wanted to, even knowing it could never end well - and they'd fucked each other senseless against her kitchen counter while the teakettle boiled down to nothing.

She hadn't led him back to her bed - that wouldn't happen until later - but he'd stayed the night, and, much to her surprise, several nights after. It had seemed like heaven for a while, actually - a man who understood the horrible things she saw and did every single day, who didn't turn away in confusion when she couldn't leave the bad things at work, and who didn't try to reduce her chosen career down to some sort of kinky joke.

That repeated experience with civilian men, incidentally, was part of why she couldn't be angry with Elizabeth Bishop for divorcing Michael without warning. Elizabeth hadn't understood what Michael went through on a daily basis, and he couldn't seem to help her understand - sadly, it happened all the time when one spouse was law enforcement and the other one wasn't.

Not to mention that she herself had been seeing someone at the time - a computer programmer named Daniel Munroe, one of the few civilian men she'd ever known who accepted her career without flinching and didn't question her ambition to be detective. After just a few minutes with Michael that night in her kitchen, though, she'd had to stare directly into the face of one very painful fact: she loved Daniel dearly, but she wasn't in love with him.

She'd even entertained the thought of marrying Daniel - knowing without needing to be told that he was on the verge of asking - until the night Michael had stepped into her kitchen. Daniel had been a gentle, attentive lover but she'd known the instant Michael touched her that Daniel would never be able to set her world on fire the way Michael could.

She'd broken it off with Daniel the very next day. He'd taken it well enough - it just wasn't in him to rage or even just be angry, which had been part of the whole problem, really - and his resulting move to Sacramento had actually somehow managed to let them rebuild their friendship.

The reaction around the precinct wasn't as simple, or as calm. Michael was technically still married, and still her senior in rank and experience - there were some very ugly words said behind both their backs, though it had mostly died down by the time the divorce was finalized a few weeks later.

Despite the possible damage to Nikita's career, her father - Nicholas Mears - had actually approved of her relationship with Michael. He'd never worried about her career, having helped raise both his daughters to be the same sort of strong, intelligent women as their mother.

Both Mears girls had been raised knowing that they could be whatever they wanted to be, that their gender shouldn't keep them from following their dreams. And it had been obvious from childhood that Nikita, the oldest and therefore named after her father, had big dreams of following in his footsteps and becoming a detective like her father.

It wouldn't be an easy dream, and her parents worried about the tough road ahead for their eldest if she pursued it, but it was obvious to them both that Nikita was born and bred to be a cop, just like her father. It was equally obvious - especially once she got into the police academy - that nothing would, or should, keep her from making detective. Nick Mears never wasted time worrying about his namesake's career - he worried about her heart, and whether she'd ever find anyone worth giving it to.

Michael Bishop had entered the force while Nick Mears was very much still in his mentoring days - Nick had liked and respected Michael from the first, though he'd needed his fair share of smacks upside the head just like any rookie. Michael, in Nick's estimation, was a good man - worthy of his daughter's heart, and one of the few he'd trust to care for her properly - and Nick would have been happy to call him 'son'.

The divorce gave Nick a bit of pause - largely because it hadn't gone through yet, and that meant Bishop was still a married man - but he'd watched his daughter with her new boyfriend and decided to overlook it. The personal and professional fallout for both Nikita and Michael wouldn't be quite so easily dismissed, but they were both good, solid cops - they'd eventually earn any lost respect back and then some, as long as they didn't let their involvement affect their work.

Nicholas Mears had died of a heart attack around the same time that Michael Bishop had started dropping hints to Nikita that he wanted to live together.

Almost as if reaching the end of a recording, Nikita's thoughts finally shifted away from Michael and her father, and back onto the case. Michael had ultimately chosen Cassandra over her, and they were all better for it - letting Michael go had been hard, and Nikita still missed him sometimes, but she nonetheless was absolutely certain she had no regrets over how things had worked out.

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, Nikita grabbed a beer - deeming it safe enough to allow herself just one - and went to retrieve the various books she'd stuffed into her briefcase. She'd asked Gigi the clerk to have the library pull everything they had on anxiety disorders, with a particular emphasis on agoraphobia.

The hardback books that had been pulled for her all had titles like _Living With Anxiety_, or _The Anxious Self_, or _Phobic Syndromes_, and Nikita had her doubts they would be very helpful.

The first one she skimmed through at least did a decent job of explaining agoraphobia, so she was ahead of the game whether the books proved useful or not. The word was Greek in origin - 'phobia' was from phobos, meaning fear, and 'agora' was a type of marketplace.

So, at least etymologically, fear of the marketplace - or any open space, really.

None of the anxiety disorders outlined in her reading were particularly pleasant, but it quickly became apparent that agoraphobia was especially insidious, and probably one of the worst of them all. It wasn't actually a fear of open spaces, so much as it was a fear of fear itself - the agoraphobic was so afraid of panicking and losing control that even the thought of something that might provoke that kind of response actually created the response just the same.

They avoided any place or situation that might make escape difficult if they began to panic - crowds, tunnels, elevators, anywhere they might feel trapped if something set them off. Some cases left the sufferer unable to leave their home, rendering them unable to function in the outside world and, more often than not, completely dependent on a caretaker to handle things in the outside world for them.

Nikita winced as she read all of that, and sent a silent apology to Amanda Collins for having triggered the woman earlier. If she'd known that even the suggestion of leaving the loft could affect the other woman that way, she'd never have let Owen make the offer to drive her to the station.

The books indicated that the caretaker was usually a spouse or relative, though sometimes a paid assistant would do the trick just as well. Nikita pushed aside a flare of idle curiosity about which category young Alex Udinov fell under, and read on, flipping through one of the books until she found the section on treatment.

The pills Amanda Collins had taken were likely tranquilizers, something like Xanax or alprazolam. Nikita had a sneaking suspicion neither was meant to be mixed with the snifter of scotch Collins had had with her during their visit, but she figured that Collins deserved whatever creature comforts she felt well enough to enjoy.

Nikita had initially assumed that the agoraphobia was a direct result of the attack by Daryl Lee Cullum - she'd read that report, and the fact that Cullum apparently hadn't had enough time to sexually assault Collins was the only theoretical bright spot in a very, very ugly incident - and she probably wasn't too far off on the idea that it was part and parcel of a very bad case of post-traumatic stress disorder.

The books, though, indicated that most cases - upwards of ninety percent, actually - did not trace back to any one particular event. Sufferers might have some history of phobias or other anxiety problems, but that first panic attack usually struck out of the blue, and for no discernible reason.

Further reading - she'd also cracked open her laptop and looked at few of the more reputable sites on agoraphobia - gave Nikita the lingering impression that Amanda Collins wasn't a typical agoraphobic. It wasn't something she could articulate yet, just something whispering at the back of her brain as she assembled the bits and pieces of info she was acquiring, and she hoped that whatever it was she was sensing would make Amanda Collins' recovery that much easier.

She paused for a moment, finally yanking her tangled thoughts into order, and popped open her work email. It took a few minutes to translate everything into an email message, but she eventually got the pertinent info and questions laid out in text and sent them off to Ryan Fletcher, another forensic psychologist she'd met while working past cases.

Fletcher wasn't the celebrity that Amanda Collins was, but he was exceedingly good at his job - he was just so quiet and matter-of-fact about it that he tended to fly under his superiors' radar when it came time for commendations and promotions. It was a sign of Nikita's faith in his abilities - and his discretion - that she'd even gone to him herself a time or two when in need of advice or a friendly ear.

Every cop knew that department-ordered therapy had limited confidentiality - that was kind of the point, really, since there was usually something going on the department needed to know about. Unfortunately, it also left a certain lingering paranoia about civilian shrinks - even though it was supposed to be completely confidential, since you were going in private, on your own time, no cop Nikita had ever known had ever fully trusted in that.

Nikita had gotten herself through the worst of the fallout over her relationship with Michael without really needing much help - some of the gossip had been cruel and horrible, but the people who mattered had known the truth. It was only after she ended things with Michael that she found it hard to cope - she'd taken a leap of faith then and trusted Ryan Fletcher with her fears.

He hadn't let her down then, or ever, and she'd come to trust him like a brother. His analysis of Amanda Collins would go a long toward easing her concerns about bringing the woman into the case - and, she hoped, provide good, solid support for her not-entirely-sanctioned choice to involve Collins despite the risks.

Fletcher wouldn't reply until he reached his office in the morning, though, and that was several hours away. It was already 1:30 in the morning, and Nikita needed at least a little sleep if she was going to function at work tomorrow.

She was too tired and groggy to question why Amanda Collins' blue eyes, full of anger and indignance like they'd been earlier that morning, were the last thing she saw before she fell into a dead sleep.


	5. Chapter Four

It was just as well that Nikita got what sleep she could. She got Amanda Collins' voicemail shortly after arriving at the precinct, and spent a good few minutes waffling over how to respond - a quick conference with Owen confirmed that he, too, felt they needed help from someone who knew serial killers, no matter what Tasarov was telling them, and agreed that Amanda Collins was worth the risk as long as they played it carefully.

Collins had agreed to see them right away when Nikita called her back, and so they'd headed right over. Nikita had been lamenting the sad lack of any chance to get herself some caffeine, but the sudden change in Amanda Collins once they got to the loft was more bracing than even the strongest black tea could possibly have been.

Alex Udinov had answered the door just like yesterday, greeting them warmly and seemingly understandably smug about having gotten Amanda to help them exactly the way she'd said she would. The woman who met them in the living room, however, bore strikingly little resemblance to the woman that Nikita and Owen had met yesterday.

Amanda Collins was still pale and a bit nervous - at least, that's what Nikita's years of experience reading body language told her - but she was decidedly not in the same scattered, agitated state of mind she'd been in during that previous meeting. She wore makeup today, and her hair had been neatly tucked into a simple twist, and she'd dressed for what she clearly considered a business meeting.

Someone had set out tea and coffee and breakfast pastries for them all, and Nikita was frankly quite glad for the momentary diversion of everyone's attention. It wasn't so much the button-down shirt and slacks that were distracting her - though they were plenty distracting in a way she had no business noticing - but more the sudden change in attitude and body language that left Nikita feeling she might finally be meeting the real Amanda Collins, the one she'd watched reign over a courtroom without batting an eye.

The few moments it took everyone to get their refreshments were enough for Nikita to regain her professional balance, and she was ready and eager to get started by the time Collins pulled out the folder and her notepad. It had already been decided that Owen would let Nikita take the lead - he didn't trust himself not to cause another panic attack or otherwise derail the whole meeting - so he pulled out his own pad and settled in to take the notes they'd need later.

There were four smaller files with the larger one, and Collins set three of them aside to flip the remaining one open. It held crime scene photos of a female victim, body battered and bruised as she lay sprawled on the floor, a bloody towel covering her face. "This one is different from the other three - it's the work of a different killer entirely. I assume it was a test of some sort - and that I've now passed?"

Collins seemed more amused than offended, so Nikita just grinned at her a little. "Half test, and half request for help."

Collins just sipped at her tea even as she fought not to roll her eyes. "How long has this particular case been open?"

"About six months," Nikita admitted. "We were hoping you could help."

"The crime scene is very disorganized," Amanda pointed out, gesturing toward the photos. "There's a lot of emotion there. The killer probably lives nearby - they would have been too disoriented to drive far, if at all. This is personal - you're looking for someone who knew your victim and cared for her deeply, maybe a lover or even a family member."

Owen couldn't help butting in at that. "No offense, but someone beat the shit out of her. That's not exactly love."

Collins gave him the same sort of patiently exasperated look Nikita did when he said something especially ridiculous. "The killer covered her face after they killed her - this usually indicates remorse, which generally means it was someone the victim knew. Especially since the reports indicate no sign of forced entry."

After giving Owen - and Nikita - a chance to weigh and digest her analysis of the first case, Collins set the first folder aside and moved onto the other three. The first one she grabbed happened to be Jennifer Lyle's. She held up a photo from both crime scenes by way of comparison. "The Lyle crime scene is something entirely different - this killer is highly organized and probably extremely fastidious. I'm assuming you found no biological evidence at the scene - no blood, no semen, not even fingerprints?"

Nikita nodded her agreement. "Not at any of the three related crime scenes."

Amanda nodded as if that was exactly what she'd expected to hear. "As I said, this killer is fastidious. The lack of forced entry means they probably charmed their way in - they didn't sexually assault any of the victims, so this wasn't about rape. This was still about power, though - see the layered bruising on the throat?"

She paused then, pouring herself a second cup of tea. "The hyoid bone was broken, wasn't it?"

"On all three victims," Nikita confirmed. "It's the only connection we have right now."

Amanda nodded again - apparently, she'd expected to hear that as well. "The killer strangles them face to face, so that the victim can see their power. Then they revive the victim and start the process all over again - it makes them feel powerful, in control. At the risk of being boring, we're looking for your standard American serial killer - white, male, intelligent, in his twenties to maybe mid-thirties. He's probably able to function socially, and definitely has an interest in American history."

Silence reigned as she looked between the two detectives, who sat staring back at her until she finally spoke again. "So - did I pass your test, Inspectors?"

It was Owen who found his voice first. "Wait - what do you mean, American history?"

Amanda just arched an eyebrow before setting her teacup down to point at a photo of Jennifer Lyle. "Where's the stocking that was around her neck? It should have been tied in a neat little bow."

Nikita finally found her own voice. "That was never made public - how did you know-?"

This time, Amanda did actually roll her eyes, as if she couldn't believe they hadn't already seen what she had. "The Lyle murder - it's the Boston Strangler."

Grabbing a tablet that Alex handed to her, Amanda pulled up a black and white photo that was disturbingly similar to the one of Jennifer Lyle - only it was decades older. "Your killer is imitating Albert DeSalvo right down to the fine details."

Owen and Nikita shared a glance as they both stared at the tablet, but it was Owen who spoke for them both as he handed the tablet back. "So you're saying our guy is copycatting someone who's been dead, what - forty years now? Why not somebody a little more recent?"

Amanda shrugged, though it was clear Owen had won at least a smidgen of respect with his knowledge of DeSalvo. "Think of serial killers like viruses - they mutate, so there's always some new and unexpected twist."

Nikita suddenly sprang into motion, having finally found her footing again. "We need to get back and pull everything we can on the Boston strangler. Doctor, I really do appreciate your help - would you mind if I called you later and-"

Something in Collins' expression made Nikita trail off before she could finish her question. "Is everything alright, Doctor?"

Amanda smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Call me Amanda, Inspector. And, yes, I am here if you need me."

Amanda paused, as if weighing something, then reached out to grab Nikita by the forearm. "You need to understand something. This isn't like your other cases - doing everything right, working the evidence, reading the statements, may not work. More often than not it's just chance that gets them caught - a traffic violation at the wrong time, or a bad smell in their house. All your hard work may well come down to blind, dumb luck."

Nikita just blinked, not sure how to interpret Collins' warning. Was it intended to educate her - to set realistic expectations on her first serial case - or was it just Collins' own bitter cynicism bleeding through? "I'll keep that in mind, Doctor - Amanda."

It felt weird using Collins' first name like that - weird in a way that Nikita was not even about to contemplate if she could help it - and Nikita suddenly just wanted to be anywhere but in the place Amanda Collins currently happened to be.

Owen had also heard Collins' warning - and probably also noted his partner's distraction around the good doctor, though he apparently decided not to comment on it if he did - but waited until they were in the elevator to bring it back up. "Do you think Collins is right? That it's just gonna be dumb luck that catches this guy?"

Nikita didn't quite know how to respond, but gave the only answer that made any kind of sense to her. "Doesn't matter. We do our jobs - get up in the morning, show up at the station, and work the case just like we've been trained."

Neither of them said it, but they were both thinking the same thing: there was one other possibility, worse than either of the others. What would happen if working the case didn't solve it, and blind luck (or bad timing) didn't land their killer behind bars? Would he just slip away into the void, dropping off the face of the earth and leaving them to wonder, to hope and pray that the next call they got wasn't him starting up all over again?

And could either of them live like that?

{*****}

Over in Golden gate Park, the Festival Of Love had finally kicked into full gear, and the park's lush green grass had disappeared beneath a veritable sea of tents, blankets, and warm bodies. Even accounting for all the various (and obvious) signs that it was not in fact the 1960s or the 1970s, there was an uncanny resemblance to both those bygone eras.

Kids who hadn't even been born yet during either decade wandered around happily stoned, clad in vintage or replica bell bottoms, beads, and tie die. Generation gap temporarily forgotten, they mingled happily with those who had been at the original festivals, who'd returned to their old stomping grounds to relive their glory days by sneaking a joint or two while they watched their old favorite bands play.

It wasn't just the old favorites, either - bands of all genres and levels of recognition had signed on for the good press the festival would provide. It was a music lover's paradise, and booth after booth was scattered across the festival grounds, loaded with cds and dvds and all kinds of memorabilia.

Those booths - and the distinct lack of protest signs - revealed the festival for the commercial venture it was, but no one seemed to mind. Even commercialized, the nostalgia felt good and everyone was having a good time - which made life much easier for the people hired to be Festival security. They wandered around in their jackets marked Security, with their earpieces and walkie talkies., but their biggest concern was really just deciding at which points they actually needed to enforce the Festival's drug and alcohol policies.

For young Randi Salvino - just shy of twenty years old - it was the closest thing available to the old famous festivals like Woodstock. So far, she was thinking that it had totally been worth a couple of sexual favors for that jerk scalper friend of Julie's - at least he was kinda hot, even if he was a jerk.

Of course, she was in a mood to be forgiving - she'd been indulging freely in the drugs circling around the Festival grounds. Nothing heavy - just some pot, and some beer, and a hit or two of Ecstasy - and she was now high, pleasantly tipsy, and starving. Hence her current slow and meandering trek through the crowd as she tried to find one of the pizza vendors who'd been everywhere when she hadn't been hungry.

A lot of hot guys - and even a few hots girls - stared and smiled as she passed by, and Randi, pleased with herself, couldn't help grinning back. She'd known her white, lacy vintage dress would be perfect - it was pretty and sweet but also kind of sexy, since it was also a little see-through and she wasn't wearing a bra. With a wreath of flowers atop her loose strawberry blonde hair, and her vintage sandals held in one hand, she could have stepped right out of one of those documentaries on the 1960s.

She was halfway to the nearest pizza vendor - finally having spotted one - when she noticed the guy with the video camera. He smiled at her and gestured to the camera, as if asking permission to film her, and she figured it wouldn't hurt anything. Playing shy and coy for the camera, she fidgeted and smiled and played with her dress as the guy circled around her.

He smiled even bigger as she spun for him - her dress fanning out around her - and she decided that she was glad she'd stopped for him. He was really cute, even if he wasn't dressed retro like almost everybody else was - he had longish hair that would have fallen into his eyes if it weren't for his wire-rimmed glasses, and she found both things adorable.

Striking a pose she hoped was sexy, she flashed him a peace sign for his camera, giggling when he flashed it back. She decided she'd stay and talk to him a bit - maybe he'd buy her some pizza or some more beer.

And afterward she'd stop and think and try to remember where she was supposed to be meeting Julie...

{*****}

Nikita's day, already a little off-kilter after the early morning meeting with Amanda Collins, was not improving any - she walked into the meeting room to find one of the other detectives enthralling his (primarily male) audience with a string of sexist jokes.

She didn't get a chance to say anything, because Ari Tasarov walked in right behind her. She didn't _have_ to say anything, though - Tasarov's entry effectively silenced the entire room, and his withering glance at the offending officer made it clear that he had zero time to waste on sexual harassment complaints filed against idiots with no impulse control.

While everyone settled in, Tasarov continued the conversation he'd started with Nikita in the hall. "The commissioner has been riding my ass on this one - I swear to God, if he 'politely' hints that we might need some outside help one more time..."

It was just the kind of opening Nikita had been waiting for. "We could use the help - the FBI databases, if nothing else."

Tasarov scoffed, exactly as she'd expected he would. "The FBI will bury us with help if we invite them in - and the case still won't get solved."

It was a fair enough assessment - and played right into Nikita's hands. "I've got some ideas about that. It doesn't have to be FBI..."

Tasarov knew exactly where she was headed and just scowled at her. "If you need help that badly, I can pull Bishop off his current case for you."

Nikita almost choked on a sudden rush of anger and indignance, but she managed - just barely - to swallow it back before she said anything regrettable. Tasarov didn't make idle threats, and he was signaling loud and clear that he would intervene if she didn't run this case the way he was telling her to - which is to say, without the involvement of the FBI, and, most importantly, without the involvement of Amanda Collins.

It wasn't like Tasarov to try and hobble his agents - if they told him they needed help, then he got them the help they needed - so Nikita could only figure that she'd underestimated the amount of pressure Tasarov was under to have his department solve things quietly and quickly. The threat to put Michael on the case wasn't malicious, but it was genuine.

Not that it wasn't still personal. Michael had seniority, and putting him on the case meant that he'd have the lead, and all the credit. Nikita would have to play by Michael's rules - and she knew him well enough to know that he could be a definite hardass about the rules if he thought it was in the best interest of the case, or the officers assigned to it.

It took Nikita a whole heartbeat to decide that Tasarov and Michael could just go fuck themselves - or each other, for all she cared. This case was hers, and she wasn't going to give it up without one hell of a fight.

Swallowing hard as if cowed, she nodded as meekly as she could manage, hoping she appeared chastened enough to fool Tasarov, at least for a little while. "That won't be necessary, sir. We'll... figure something out."

Mollified by the change in attitude - though he knew better than to accept it at face value - Tasarov just nodded his approval and turned his attention to the rest of the room. "What do you have for me, gentlemen?"

It was sort of a running joke, what with Nikita being the only female detective on the squad - but a joke that she and Tasarov had discussed often enough to know that Nikita didn't mind. It was, in its own odd way, a tacit acknowledgment from Tasarov that he understood Nikita could handle anything her male peers could - and probably better, at that.

There was a knock on the door, and Michael Bishop poked his head in. "You wanted to see me, Captain?"

Tasarov nodded. "Sit in with us, just in case we need another pair of eyes on down the line."

It didn't take the room long to recognize and understand the threat implicit in that request - leaving Nikita grinding her teeth almost hard enough to break them - but Tasarov didn't allow them any time to speculate or whisper. "I apologize for the interruption, Mears. Please begin."

All eyes turned to Nikita, and she put the two pictures Amanda Collins had shown them up on the projector screen. "The Lyle murder is copycatting the Boston Strangler. We're waiting on the files from Boston, but until then we've started checking for anyone with even a passing resemblance to Albert DeSalvo. We're also looking at the other two murders for any connections to the Strangler, or to any other serial killer."

It wasn't much, compared to some of the other cases they'd worked before, but it was everything to this case in particular. Tasarov, seeming impressed despite himself, actually unwound a turn or two - a very small turn, but a turn nonetheless. "Excellent. When do the records from Boston get here?"

Nikita assured him that the files were expected first thing in the morning. After that, everything else was forgotten as the squad provided updates on the million and one tasks that were already ongoing for the investigation, and divvied up the new ones created by the serial killer angle. No one argued or bitched or complained - they were just happy to finally have an angle to work, even if it wasn't one they were especially experienced with.

Tasarov also surprised them with his final statement as he called the meeting to a close. "One last thing - you're all cleared for whatever overtime you need. The commissioner wants a task force, so he's got one."

He fixed them all with one last stern look. "I do not want to hear any of you utter the words 'serial killer' or 'task force' outside this room - do you understand me?"

Michael was one of the last to leave. Nikita had been almost too angry to look at him directly, but she was glad she did - his expression made it clear that Tasarov had blindsided him too and he'd had no idea what Tasarov had called him there for. She nodded her understanding, glad that he was just as pissed off about it as she was and grateful that he was in fact still the good man she'd always known him to be.

Her heart sank down to her feet, though, as Tasarov stood and waited for everyone else to leave. Once it was just the two of them, he simply arched an eyebrow. "So I take it your interview with Amanda Collins was productive, then?"

Nikita shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned, and did her best to make her smirk seem genuine. "She'd called fourteen times, wanting to help. I was just following up and leveraging all my available resources."

Tasarov shook his head, somewhere between amused and exasperated and approving, before simply walking out the door.


	6. Chapter Five

Amanda Collins, still in her makeup and button down shirt and slacks - though she had decided at some point to let her hair back down - sat at her computer.

She was both surprisingly clear-headed - having made a point of limiting her alcohol consumption - and surprisingly relaxed. It had felt good to jump back into the game, even in a limited capacity, and the buzz had lingered, leaving her in an unusually cheerful mood.

Tapping on her keyboard, she made her next move in the online chess game she was playing - white bishop to G5 - then sat back with a pleased expression as she waited for her opponent's countermove. She couldn't help bragging a little, even to an empty room. "I'm kicking your ass..."

Alex, who had just walked in with her purse in one hand and keys in the other, just grinned as arched an eyebrow at Amanda. "You're in a good mood. I take it you're winning?"

Amanda grinned back, a sparkle in her eyes that hadn't been there in far too long. "Damn right I am."

Alex, though relieved to see Amanda in such high spirits, decided not to comment further on it and just leaned in to kiss Amanda on the cheek. "I should be back by midnight. Go easy on the poor guy."

Amanda just scoffed and waved a hand at Alex's back as she watched her opponent move his bishop to E7 - exactly the way she'd expected he would. She made the next move called for by her strategy, leaving her just a few short moves from victory, and turned to her second monitor as she left her opponent to figure out how to save himself.

The second monitor was currently displaying an article from the Forensic Medicine Institute - a prospective new analysis that Amanda had wanted to review after helping the Inspectors with their case files. She had a feeling that any further involvement on her part wouldn't exactly be sanctioned by their department, but part of her still hoped they'd be back, and she wanted to be prepared.

A ding from her speakers notified her that she had an incoming email, and she hurried to pull up her email client in case it was something from one of the Inspectors - which would have been an amusing bit of coincidental timing. It wasn't her work account, though - it was the general purpose account that had been created for the website her publishers had insisted be set up for her books.

It was an email from a random, generic, and obviously throw-away email account, and was simply titled 'Tomorrow'. All it contained was a link to a YouTube video - Amanda almost deleted the message as spam, feeling momentarily perturbed that her software's usually excellent filters hadn't already caught it.

She froze mid-click as she caught sight of the thumbnail image of the video that had been created for her by the email client. Even in miniature, the image of Jennifer Lyle in a bathtub was unmistakable, and placed an entirely different spin on the email and video.

Pushing away and jumping to her feet, Amanda shouted for Alex, but Alex was already long gone. Grabbing her nearby cell phone along with Nikita Mears' business card, she starting dialing frantically.

The three rings it took Nikita Mears to pick up felt like an eternity.

Twenty minutes later, Nikita, Owen, Amanda Collins, and a young CSI computer tech named Sonya all stood staring at Amanda's computer monitor in horrified silence.

After running a few checks to make sure the link wasn't to a virus or some other trick website, Sonya had pulled up the YouTube video for them. Any hopes they all might have entertained that it was just a prank of some sort evaporated as they watched camcorder footage of Jennifer Lyle's dead body start playing. The tension in the room thickened as a dissolve effect shifted everything over to footage of a girl in a vintage white dress, her loose strawberry blonde hair and vintage sandals making her seem painfully young as she danced and mugged for the camera.

They all jumped as a horrible screeching laugh suddenly poured out the speakers, even as the girl's face in the video was replaced by a grinning skull. The video ended on a black screen with red text that read "She's next."

Collins - Amanda, Nikita reminded herself - didn't look so good, so Nikita got her to step away from her computer on the pretext of letting Sonya try and trace whatever she could about the email and the YouTube account. It seemed to help a little - or maybe Amanda was just normally steadier than she'd been on the day they'd first met - and Nikita figured it was safe enough to at least try to ask a couple questions. "Amanda, do you have any idea how someone could have gotten your email address?"

Amanda started plucking at the red rubber band that the cuff of her sleeve had hidden, taking a few slow breaths before responding. They'd offered to call Alex Udinov back to the loft, but Amanda had been adamant about not doing so. "I have an email box on my website - maybe they got it from there somehow."

"That's entirely possible," Sonya chimed in, her soft East African accent seeming strangely at odds with the heavy tension filling the study.

Nikita asked her next question very carefully, knowing it would only make Amanda's anxiety worse. She crouched down at Amanda's feet, putting a hand on Amanda's arm. "Is there any reason that someone would send that link to you specifically?"

Amanda's scathing look actually gave Nikita hope that Amanda might in fact be steadier than she appeared just then. "I don't know, Inspector. You tell me."

"I don't know," Nikita replied, blinking. "No one has said a word about your involvement in-"

"There is no involvement!" Amanda leapt to her feet, propelled by a mixture of fear and anger, and only Nikita's quick reflexes and good balance kept her from getting knocked onto her ass.

Amanda jabbed a finger in Nikita's direction. "This is all your fault - yours and your idiot partner's! It's a game he's playing, hanging around watching the cops to see how they fumble around - and you both led him right to me!"

Owen, who'd been called far worse things than 'idiot' in his time, finally stepped into the conversation. "Maybe so, Doctor, but he didn't send this to us. He sent it to you."

"I'm their damned pin-up girl," Amanda shot back, but she'd regained a measure of control and took her seat again. She looked up at Nikita, as if imploring her to understand something she couldn't quite verbalize. "They all know me - I'm their muse, their worthy opponent."

The sense of vulnerability and violation underlying that thought sent a chill down Nikita's spine - in that moment, it was all too easy to understand why and how Amanda would be afraid to leave her own home. Before she could say anything, though, Sonya started cursing under her breath.

The accent couldn't mask the anger in Sonya's voice as Nikita and Owen moved to join her. "He's a clever bastard, I'll give him that. He was expecting us to try and trace him, and managed to set a trap of some sort."

She gestured at the web page, which now showed a video frame containing a black field with the word "Goodbye' on it in the same red text as before. "I may still be able to trace everything with the data I've gathered, but it's going to take time."

That was about the time that they all realized that none of them had thought to grab screen captures to help them find the girl. Calling for a sketch artist was risky - there was every likelihood that their memories of the girl in the short video clip would be woefully inaccurate - but a quick call to Tasarov netted them approval to try anyway.

Even under the kind of stress she must have been feeling just then, Amanda Collins proved amazing. She hadn't been joking at all when she'd mentioned having a photographic memory - her initial description got them a nearly perfect sketch, and Nikita and Owen only added or tweaked a few minor details.

It made Nikita strangely glad that she no longer needed an excuse to officially bring Amanda into the investigation - the killer had provided all the ammunition she needed for that argument when he'd sent Amanda the email. It wasn't the way Nikita would have wanted it done - Amanda had been through enough already - but she was perfectly willing to accept the gift horse they'd all just been handed.

Provided, of course, that Amanda Collins was still willing to cooperate...

Amanda had apparently been hoping that Sonya would need to confiscate her computer, because she glared at the machine in much the same way a child might glare at an object that had tripped or injured them. It would almost have been comical, in fact, if Nikita hadn't been so worried about Amanda's mental state - and if Amanda hadn't immediately marched over and shut the thing off.

The techs needed the machine up and online in case the killer tried to contact Amanda some other way - and because they had programs they needed to run to gather the computer's logs about the video - and so Nikita moved to intervene. "What are you doing? The techs said we need to leave it on."

Something in Amanda's eyes said that she was finally starting to unravel a little bit, and her words only confirmed it. "I'm not leaving it on. Not when it's a fucking open window into my office!"

Nikita sent Owen out of the room with a nod of her head, and tried to figure out how to calm Amanda down enough to let them all do their jobs. "This is the only lead we have - he can't hurt you through a computer."

"This is the only safe space I have!" There was desperation in Amanda's eyes to match the desperation in her voice, and it cut through Nikita like a knife. "I can't- I can't-"

She broke off then, her breathing so rapid and shallow that Nikita was afraid the other woman would pass out. "I can get an officer assigned to keep watch, if that-"

Somehow, Amanda still found enough air to argue - loudly. "I don't want any more strangers in my home!"

It was a perfectly understandable way for Amanda to feel, and Nikita offered the only compromise she felt might help. "What if I stay? You know me, right? I'm not a stranger."

There was something in Amanda's eyes as she weighed Nikita's words - something back beyond even the anger and the fear - that unsettled Nikita in a way she couldn't explain. Then it was all suddenly replaced by a quiet gratitude that was unsettling in a very different way. "You'd stay if I asked?"

"Of course," Nikita assured her. "And Sonya said she'd stay and help with the computer if we needed her to. You wouldn't even have to look at if you didn't want to."

"And I'm only a phone call away," Owen chimed in from the doorway, having been drawn by Amanda's raised voice. "Nikita can call me if you guys need me."

Amanda and Nikita exchanged a look after that - a look that Owen was definitely not a part of and couldn't entirely decipher. It felt almost like back in high school, when the girl he liked had been really into someone else instead.

That last thought made everything click into place, and Owen fought back a smile as he reassessed everything about their interactions. Nikita was attracted to Amanda Collins, and he'd bet money - not serious money, not yet, but money - that Collins was attracted right back.

He'd known from the start of their partnership that Nikita was bisexual, so her liking another woman wasn't surprising - hell, he was pretty sure the whole deal with Nikita and Morelli was a one-night stand gone wrong. What was surprising to him was Nikita being interested in anyone at all - she'd had a few casual dates here and there, but no one had ever seemed to interest her enough to finally push her past quietly pining for Michael Bishop.

If he was reading things right, though, that may have finally changed. He didn't think it would be a bad match, either - lots of irresistible force meeting immovable object, which he knew Nikita would actually enjoy. She needed someone who could keep up with her, and Collins had that in spades.

Making his excuses - and fighting off a grin - he headed out once Collins accepted Nikita's offer. He was still trying to decide whether Collins' agoraphobia would be too much for Nikita to deal with when he reached his car, and got startled back to reality by the sudden awareness that he was not alone.

Lucky for Jill Morelli, he managed to pull back his punch just in time. He glared at her, genuinely annoyed, as she just stared at him with wide blue eyes - as far as he was concerned, it would have served her right if she had gotten herself hit, skulking around and sneaking up on cops like that.

He almost cursed out loud as a few other pieces fell into place and he realized that Jill Morelli now knew the police were consulting with Collins, and would waste no time at all spreading the word. "What do you want, Morelli?"

Morelli swallowed hard under the weight of his glare, but quickly composed herself. "I'm sorry I startled you, Inspector. Is it true that the police department is working with Doctor Amanda Collins? Does that mean this is a serial case after all?"

"Man, you're like some kind of ankle-biter or something, aren't you, Morelli?" Shaking his head in disbelief, Owen unlocked his car door and climbed in.

The last thing he saw before leaving the parking lot was Morelli glaring into his tail lights.

While Owen was down in the parking lot dodging Jill Morelli, Nikita had taken a seat in front of Amanda's computer to keep an eye on things while Sonya was busy doing... well, whatever it was with computers that she did so well.

Sonya claimed she was consulting with one of the other CSIs - a Seymour Birkhoff, who Nikita knew more by reputation than anything else - but the snatches of conversation Nikita had overheard so far sounded as much like flirting as they did work, so Nikita had pretty much tuned out.

They'd asked Amanda to open every avenue of contact she normally had open, and Nikita was trying very hard to ignore a very personal response to being slapped in the face by the evidence of a life lived entirely through other people. Amanda didn't want or need her pity, and she could imagine her own response if she'd been offered pity by a stranger while in Amanda's place - and offering even the hint of pity seemed like a slap in the face to the strength Amanda was showing simply by continuing to fight after everything she'd been through.

Amanda, and all the others like her, actually - Nikita had watched the various chat rooms for a few minutes, but that had been all she'd been able to take. It had felt like prying, for one, no matter how many times she repeated to herself that it was both necessary and part of the job - alerting the people on the various boards that they were being watched would scare away the killer if he was lurking in hopes of catching Amanda.

The real problem, though, had been her reaction to some of the stories being shared on those boards. She'd seen a lot in her years as a cop - she was a homicide detective, for God's sake - but the things that some of the other people on those boards had shared had just made her so angry on their behalf. That anger had somehow fused with her anger over what Amanda had been through at Daryl Lee Cullum's hands, and the whole mess had settled into an ugly, painful knot in her stomach.

Amanda, for her part, was largely ignoring Nikita as she paced around the study, Cognac in hand. (No one had blamed her for needing it, and Nikita had even poured it for her when she found her hands were shaking too much to pour it herself.) Despite her still-shaking hands and anxiety-driven movement, however, she was entirely focused on building a profile of their killer.

Right now, every scrap of instinct and intuition she had - and it was a gratifyingly formidable amount even having been out of the game for a year - was homing in on the fact that he had taken pictures of Jennifer Lyle body as it lay in her bathtub. The addition of the video to that fact only caused that indefinable gut response to ping even louder.

Pausing only to take a sip of her Cognac while she forced her mind to slow down and step back, she started pacing again as she continued working to piece together something based as much in fact as on intuition.

Jennifer Lyle's picture had been framed like a crime scene photo, and would not have stood out from among the other official crime scene photos in the case file. The footage of the girl in the video had clearly been taken by some sort of camcorder at the Festival Of Love. All of it showed an unmistakable level of training and talent.

Fact One, then - their killer was comfortable with photography equipment, including at least enough familiarity with digital editing software to make that damned video. He was also definitely familiar with the internet and its conventions - at least enough so to understand the best way to send that video to taunt Amanda and the police - and the fact that he'd also somehow been able to rig things to remove the video once it was watched only underscored this.

Okay, then, their killer liked to keep photographs and video footage of his victims as trophies. She'd be very surprised if he didn't also keep a scrapbook of sorts of the various news reports and newspaper articles about his handiwork.

She didn't quite have enough information yet to pin down the exact reason the killer had chosen to copycat the Boston Strangler - though his obsession with visual media made her wonder if had something to do with wanting the same level of celebrity for himself. The fact that his attempts at copycatting were both frighteningly well-informed and so incredibly precise spoke of intelligence and dedication.

The next question was this: how had he discovered her own personal involvement, limited as it had been until he'd sent her the email? Sending her that email could only have been intended as a challenge - he wanted her to know that he knew who she was, and where she was, and wanted to show off for her as he let her know those things.

A sharp flare of pain in her head made her stop pacing. It was all too much, too fast, for her - the meds and the alcohol had helped settle her at first, but they had started combining with her mental and physical fatigue to make everything seem dull and a little hazy. Stopping behind Nikita, she peered at the screen over the Inspector's shoulder. "You don't really think he'll try and contact me twice in one night, do you?"

"Not really," Nikita said, expression rueful. "But we can't ignore the possibility that he might."

Amanda nodded, then looked down to see that her snifter was empty. One more small glass before calling a it a night sounded like exactly what she needed just then. Walking over to grab the brandy, she looked back to Nikita. "Would you like a drink, Inspector?"

Nikita smiled at her - the first genuine smile Amanda had ever seen from her - and it was a little dazzling. "I'm on duty. But I saw the label on that bottle - rain check?"

Amanda smiled back, hoping the expression didn't look as drunken and sloppy as it felt. There was something about Nikita's offhand comment that made her feel strange, but she already felt so strange that she couldn't separate the emotion out from everything else. "Of course."

At least not consciously, anyway - her subconscious nailed it right on the head, if the next words out of her mouth were anything to judge by. "So - about you and Inspector Elliot -?"

Nikita had apparently already turned her attention to something on one of the monitors, because her answer sounded a little distracted. "What about us?"

Amanda meant to use that opening to back out gracefully before she asked any other ridiculously prying and impertinent questions. Her subconscious apparently still had control of her mouth, though, and part of her recoiled in embarrassment at the next words out of her mouth. "Are you two... close?"

That definitely got Nikita's attention. Nothing in her face or voice revealed her inner response to the question, and the little chuckle she gave was equally uninformative. "Never going to happen. We're friends and partners, that's all."

Amanda couldn't seem to help teasing a bit. "You sound awfully certain of that, considering the way he looks at you."

Nikita laughed again, and this time it was clear that she apparently considered an affair with Owen Elliot such a non-possibility that the question didn't bother her. "I'm not saying there's no attraction. I'm just saying you haven't seen how he looks at his girlfriend. Kinda adorable, really, in a 'give you sugar-shock' kind of way."

Amanda was saved from further embarrassing herself by two things: the sudden chiming of the alarm on her phone, and Sonya's return to the study. Walking over to retrieve her phone - and secretly glad she'd ditched her heels before the cognac kicked in - Amanda cursed under her breath as she looked that the reminder currently displayed on the device's screen.

By the time she looked back over to the desk, Nikita was already done conferring with Sonya and was watching her expectantly. Noting Nikita's apparently excellent hearing, Amanda gave the Inspector her own version of a rueful expression. "I hate to impose, Inspector, but I need to borrow you for a few minutes."

Nikita arched an eyebrow at her, though the teasing glint in her eyes from their earlier conversation faded a bit as she looked at the phone Amanda held out to her. It was a note for Amanda to complete her prescribed exposure therapy - a dozen steps down her hallway, and then another dozen back to her door.

Amanda, clearly feeling understandably awkward about the request, misread Nikita's change of expression. "I wouldn't ask, but Alex is out and I don't know what time she'll be back. It's getting late, and I need to do this."

"Oh, of course," Nikita said, hastening to reassure Amanda and break the tension. "Stretching my legs a little sounds great."

She wasn't sure if she was taking the request too cavalierly - this obviously wasn't a pleasure jaunt for Amanda - but it seemed to work well enough. Amanda's answering smile was relieved but certainly genuine enough. "Thank you."

Amanda filled in the brief and oddly uncomfortable trip to the front door with a cursory rundown of exactly what she was doing, and what she needed Nikita to do. Nikita relaxed a little once it became clear that she was really just expected to be moral support, and a safety net if Amanda's agoraphobia got the better of her - though she did silently kick herself for not yet having found time to look up info on how to help someone having a panic attack.

She considered asking Alex about that as she and Amanda stepped through the main apartment door and out into the hallway. It was an idle thought, really, but it took an odd turn - a small portion of Nikita's brain found itself back to wondering exactly what Alexandra Udinov was to Amanda, and what Amanda's vague but not-so-subtle attempts at flirting might mean.

It wasn't that she didn't reciprocate the attraction, Nikita admitted - she was honestly enjoying the attention, and in no way objected to the feel of Amanda's hand on her arm as they walked down the hallway. And even simply counting the steps they were taking aloud, Amanda's voice was definitely pure ear candy.

It wasn't even that Nikita was closeted - she made no secret of being attracted to more than one gender, her own among them, and her colleagues had eventually just stopped considering it to be of any note to them. Amanda Collins was certainly everything she found herself attracted to - smart, aggressive, independent, and a hell of a lot sexier than Nikita was really comfortable with her being, given that she was currently assisting with a case.

She'd been burned - and badly - by mixing work and pleasure before. But part of her couldn't avoid the temptation to wonder about what might be possible after the case was closed...

"Inspector?" Amanda's voice, amused at Nikita's apparent distraction, broke into Nikita's thoughts. "That's twelve."

Nikita, feeling a little guilty at having been so distracted - what if there had been a problem and she'd been too lost in her own head to see it? - gave Amanda a discreet once-over and was surprised to see that Amanda looked happy and excited rather than stressed. Smiling, she made a bit of a joke out of Amanda's unnecessary formality by echoing it herself. "Good work, Doctor."

Amanda - slightly out of breath, color high, eyes bright and flashing - just beamed, and Nikita tried to ignore the way it made her own breath come just a little bit faster. Then Amanda pointed ahead a few steps, to where the hallway ended. "Twelve is my record. Care to help me break it?"

Nikita wasn't sure if there was a particular reason for the number of steps Amanda's doctor had assigned, but decided that a few more couldn't hurt if Amanda felt up to it, and there was someone there with her. She also figured that someone, at some point, had to trust Amanda to know her own limits - nodding, she grinned back at Amanda and gave her the signal to go ahead.

They were both tired and a little overwrought - it had been a long day for both of them - and they were both laughing a little hysterically by the time they reached the wall they'd been aiming for. A little too hysterically on Amanda's part, Nikita suddenly realized - a heartbeat or two after reaching the wall and putting her back up against it, Amanda started shaking and her breathing changed.

Trying to figure out what had gone wrong, Nikita followed Amanda's wide-eyed gaze and suddenly understood the problem. The small and familiar trip to one side of the hallway had been tolerable, even enjoyable, for Amanda - until she'd accidentally caught sight of the hallway's far end.

Trying to stay calm - even she could guess that getting anxious herself wasn't going to help Amanda - Nikita took her best stab at helping, and hoped she didn't screw it up. Her immediate instinct was to disrupt Amanda's view of the hallway, and she want with it, albeit slowly - Amanda didn't startle as Nikita's hand came into her field of vision, but she did finally blink.

That seemed to help a little, so Nikita pushed on. "That's it. Just keep your eyes closed for a minute."

Amanda didn't say anything right away, but her breathing was evening back out. She started quietly snapping at the rubber band Nikita had noticed she always wore around one wrist, then started murmuring quietly under her breath. "George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson..."

It took Nikita a moment to make out what Amanda was saying, and another moment to realize that Amanda was reciting United States presidents as some sort of calming exercise. It was somehow so thoroughly Amanda Collins that it made her smile - a smile that only widened as Amanda opened her eyes again and smiled back. Nikita reached out to brush a wayward strand of hair away from Amanda's face without even realizing she'd done it. "You okay?"

Amanda - eyes locked on Nikita's face so she didn't get another glimpse of the hallway until she was ready - just nodded. "Yes. Still a little shaky, but-"

Amanda closed her eyes, let out a breath, then just beamed. "This is the furthest I've been from my front door in thirteen months, Inspector. I know it may not seem like much, but it's everything to me."

Every response Nikita could think of just sounded ridiculous to her, so she just nodded her understanding. Inspiration struck, though, as she remembered something she'd read once. "There's this book Owen gave me - Dune by Frank Herbert - that has something called the Litany Against Fear. Maybe it'll make a good addition to your list of presidents?"

Amanda actually laughed a little at that. "I'd forgotten about that one. 'I must not fear. Fear is the mind killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration.'"

"Okay," Nikita admitted, making a face she'd never know just how adorable Amanda found. "It's kind of melodramatic - but I still like it. I've been using it ever since I read the book - it really helps me."

She was about to hurriedly add that her own fears on the job in no way compared to Amanda's agoraphobia, but Amanda seemed to understand what she'd meant and took no offense. She actually seemed to approve of Nikita's coping mechanism. "I'm glad it helps - being a cop can't be easy. If everything is going right, I'm not in any real danger - you're the one who's actually out there bringing these sick bastards in."

"I'm a bit of an adrenaline junkie," Nikita admitted in a teasing, mock-confessional tone. "But please don't tell anyone. No one has figured it out yet, and Owen might worry or something."

They both laughed at that - it was a strangely comfortable, relaxed laugh considering the situation - but Amanda decided it was time to acknowledge the largest of the elephants currently in the room. "We need to get back into the apartment."

The unspoken addendum to that statement was that she wasn't quite sure how to pull that off when she couldn't risk getting even a glimpse of the other end of the hallway again. Nikita pondered that one a moment, and only came up with two ideas - and neither of them was very dignified. "If you need to keep your eyes closed, I can help guide you back to the door. Or you could just keep one hand on the wall and I'll stay right beside you."

After a couple more minutes of debating - or, really, just clarifying what Amanda needed and wanted in order to get back to her door without another attack - Amanda had decided that she was going to make the trek back with her eyes open. She'd keep one hand on the wall to help ground her, but focusing on something else - like Nikita - would keep her from focusing on the other end of the hallway again.

Walking backward while keeping an eye on Amanda should have been incredibly awkward for Nikita, even knowing there was nothing behind her to trip over, but it actually created a weird sort of camaraderie between her and Amanda - Amanda was being forced to trust Nikita's ability to get her back to the door, and Nikita was, ostensibly anyway, trusting Amanda to make sure she didn't bust her ass on something she couldn't even see.

That wasn't to say that it didn't feel odd. Amanda without her heels, Nikita quickly realized, was only a couple inches taller than she was, and the need for direct and extended eye contact as they slowly walked down the hall made the trip far more intimate than either of them was probably completely comfortable with.

They were only a handful of steps from the door when Nikita stumbled a bit. There was no danger of her actually tripping and falling, but Amanda still made a bit of a fuss over it - being bossy and maternal was apparently hardwired into Amanda's actual DNA - and they stopped for a minute to share a laugh about it.

They were standing awkwardly close, Amanda with one hand on Nikita's shoulder as she and Nikita stared into each other's eyes, when a voice broke in, shattering the moment. "Amanda? Is everything okay?"

Neither of them had heard the elevator, but Alexandra Udinov had apparently just stepped off of it and was more than a little surprised to see Amanda out in the hallway. She hurried over to where they stood, giving Nikita an odd, unreadable look as she stopped beside her - Nikita noted, though, that Alex immediately focused on Amanda rather than wasting time on whatever she thought might have been happening. She also shared in Amanda's excitement at having made an extended trek out of the apartment.

Alex Udinov clearly understood even better than Nikita what a feat that was, and the thought cut through Nikita in a way she hadn't expected. It wasn't rational at all - of course Alex understood better, she'd been living with Amanda this whole time, and had a grasp of Amanda's illness that Nikita couldn't possibly have yet - but it still hurt, somehow.

Nikita recognized jealousy when she felt it, and it was only made worse by the fact that Nikita didn't even know whether she should actually be jealous in the first place - and that it didn't really matter anyway, because she didn't have any right to be jealous no matter what Alex and Amanda's relationship ended up being.

She'd managed to put her game face back on by the time they were all back inside the apartment, but the looks she got from both Amanda and Alex made Nikita suspect that her game face wasn't up to her usual standards. It didn't really matter, though, because she was quickly distracted by Sonya, who needed to catch Nikita up on a few things.

The awkwardness returned as they all settled into the living area to continue waiting. Amanda was too wired to sleep after her success out in the hallway, and Alex decided to sit up with them all do a little studying - she was about to start her senior year as a psychology major at Berkeley, no surprise there - and Nikita was apparently set on obsessing over the nature of their relationship instead of just finding some socially acceptable way to ask them so she could put herself out of her current misery.

Eventually, she lost herself in a Dashiell Hammett novel that Amanda had laying around and looked up to find that it had gotten strangely quiet. Alex had fallen asleep first, apparently, using Amanda's leg as a pillow, and Amanda had fallen asleep at some point after that - even in her sleep, she was keeping a hand on Alex, which gave Nikita a bittersweet pang she decided to ignore.

Nikita herself finally dozed off around two or three in the morning, stretching out on the other couch. She had a sequence of strange dreams after that - all of them some variation on those moments out in the hallway, all of them ending in a kiss or something even more inappropriate - and it was hard to say whether she was actually sleeping or not given the number of times she woke up.

It was actually a relief when her phone went off at 6:30 in the morning - at least, until she answered it and heard what Owen had to tell her.

Amanda's sleep-roughened voice broke the silence that fell after Nikita ended the call. "They found her, didn't they? We were too late..."

Amanda's voice woke Alex up, and Nikita wasn't sure how to answer since she couldn't tell if Amanda wanted Alex kept out of everything or not. Alex, even half-asleep, picked up on this and just rolled her eyes as she got to her feet. "I'll go start the coffee and see what we have for breakfast. Maybe I can get you something to take with you, Inspector."

Nikita liked the girl - even if she was offering coffee instead of tea - and smiled at her, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. Then she realized exactly how dry and gritty her eyes felt and realized she probably need the coffee this morning, and that Alex Udinov might actually be an angel in disguise. "Coffee would be wonderful."

She had just enough time to relay what info she had to Amanda - nothing, really, as she hadn't checked in yet - and to reassure Amanda that it wasn't her fault, before Alex came back in with a travel mug of coffee and some breakfast pastries she'd rustled up somehow.

Alex also insisted on seeing Nikita to the front door, which everyone seemed to find a bit odd. Her nefarious plot was revealed, though, as she followed Nikita into the hallway. "She's my mom, Inspector."

Nikita blinked, not quite awake enough to process that non-sequitur, and Alex just grinned. "Amanda is my mother - well, my foster mother - and there's nothing like that going on between us."

She turned and went back into the apartment without another word, but Nikita still managed to hold back her grin until she was in the elevator.


	7. Chapter Six

NOTE: I apologize for the extreme delay between chapters - life's been a bit crazy these last few weeks. It's settling back down, though, so I hope to update a bit more regularly from here on out.

{*****}

Peter Foley walked through the doorway to his bedroom. He was young - maybe twenty eight or twenty nine - boyishly attractive in an oddly plain sort of way, and clearly in a hurry.

Having just returned home from work, he was wearing a white lab coat over a blue shirt, matching blue tie, and dark gray slacks. Slightly messy light brown hair fell to just over the top of his ears, and just brushed the top of his wire-rimmed glasses - the combination should have been extremely appealing, but there was a certain unsettling awkwardness to Peter's demeanor that marred it somehow.

Some people - perhaps due to a difficult life, or some other equally urgent circumstance - were known to decide early on that a certain invisibility is the best way for them to adapt to the social status quo. Peter Foley was one of these individuals, and had made such a tremendous effort at being neutral and nondescript that he was now unsettling in his sheer ordinariness.

Today, though, 'neutral' and 'nondescript' were neither desirable nor appropriate. Peter was entertaining a guest, and was eager to make the best possible impression on her. To that end, he quickly changed out of his rumpled work clothes - wanting to look his best, he selected a fresh shirt in a different shade of blue he'd been advised suited him very well, and a fresh pair of slacks he'd ironed just last night.

A quick glance in the mirror showed him that all was in order, though he paused for a moment to fix his hair ever so slightly, enjoying its casually tousled look. He also took a moment to consider whether he needed a tie as well, but decided against it - ties only ever got in his way, and the situation wasn't formal enough to require one.

With that, Peter left the bedroom, cutting through the living room on his way to the kitchen. The house had been his mother's before it had been his, and still reflected the care she had put into decorating it. Some of the furnishings and knick knacks were decades old by now, but Peter thought it gave his home a certain old-fashioned charm.

The kitchen was a bit of a mess, which was not at all unusual. Peter worked hard to keep the rest of the house clean enough to meet the exacting standards his late mother had instilled in him, but let the kitchen stay as neat or as dirty as his mood dictated. He'd been quite distracted by his guest over the last few days, more so than he'd realized, and decided to take a moment and tidy up the kitchen before moving on.

He actually started humming as he cleaned, grabbing himself a bottled water and straw once he was done, and kept up the noise as he let himself through the locked door to the basement - some Sixties song or other that he'd heard at that festival yesterday when he'd taken his camera there to film.

Walking down the stairs into the basement proper, he paused to stare at the sleek, metallic array of machinery lined up against one wall. The computer setup was his special baby, something he'd spent hours designing and building, and the camcorder currently attached to the computer was equally special, though he'd had little to do with its design.

There were also other devices - monitors, an old VCR, even a separate dvd player for when he didn't want to use the one on his computer - and every single one of them was precise and efficient and predictable. It soothed him in a way interacting with living beings never did.

The human factor - something Peter Foley had never understood or mastered - was conspicuously absent here. Pleasantly absent, if anyone would have asked Peter about it directly.

One monitor displayed the image of Randi Salvino, one hand on her hip, the other flashing a peace sign for the camera as she smiled shyly. The flesh and blood Randi lay just a few feet away on a lab table.

The table was covered with plain white sheets, folded to ensure they wouldn't interfere with the makeshift restraints holding Randi down. This was more precaution than necessity on Peter's part - Randi was currently only semiconscious, courtesy of the sedative Peter had injected her with prior to leaving for work that morning. Even if she had been alert enough to protest, a piece of duct tape over her mouth ensured her silence.

Peter leaned over her then, placing his left hand on her forehead. His right hand held a gleaming Exacto knife - it was the first thing Randi focused on when the hand on her forehead roused her, and she quickly expended what little strength she had left fighting against her restraints.

Waiting for Randi to settle back down, Peter stared at the huge wall-length white board directly behind her. It was filled with a collage of various images, some taken with a camera and others captured from video footage. The left side of the board held images from his previous three victims, taken both before and after death - including Jennifer Lyle, who held the current place of honor.

The right half of the board wasn't full yet, but he'd made a good start. It currently held pictures of the various crime scenes, with a heavy focus on the lead Inspectors, Nikita Mears and Owen Elliot. The true place of honor, though - for the entire board, not just one specific side - was held by images of Amanda Collins, including a few he'd managed of her with her ward Alexandra Udinov.

Randi had finally quieted down, drained of what little fight she'd been able to muster, and Peter returned his attention to her. Shushing her like he might a fussy child, he braced his left arm against her and used his free hand to cut a small, precise slit through the duct tape directly over her mouth - he liked the look of it on her, but also wanted to hear her if she decided to talk to him.

Peter opened the water and placed that straw into the bottle, holding it out so Randi could see that he'd brought it just for her. "I brought you something to drink. I told you I'd take care of you, didn't I?"

Randi struggled pointlessly to pull away at first, as Peter slipped an arm under her to lift her head and shoulders up as much as he could within her restraints, but thirst won out and she eventually let Peter help her drink through the straw. The effort exhausted her, though, and the remnants of the sedative she'd been given earlier that day pulled her back under.

Peter caught her as she slumped back down against his arm, noting the contrast of his blue shirt against her white dress - the dress he'd taken care to keep as clean as possible - and just stood there holding her for a moment as he admired the tableau.

Then he settled in to begin his true task for the evening...

{*****}

Only hours later - not even a full hour after Owen's call had woken her at Amanda's loft - Nikita Mears stood on a stony, windswept hilltop high above San Francisco.

The early morning fog had yet to burn off, swathing the landscape in something very reminiscent of gray tulle as Nikita stared out over it. The cold, barren ground seemed to match the mood and color of the haze around her perfectly, putting her eerily in mind of one of the post-apocalyptic movies Owen seemed to love so much.

Shaking the thought off, Nikita turned her back on the unsettling view to focus on an even more unsettling sight - the body of young Randi Salvino, face-down on the ground and naked except for a pair of white bikini underwear. A No Dumping sign stood just beside her, and something Nikita recognized as fatigue verging on hysteria kept drawing Nikita's attention back to that sign.

Wishing the coffee would just hurry up and kick in already, Nikita forced herself to focus on the coroner. Frank, looking as unhappy as she'd ever seen him, was just wrapping up his initial examination, and his assistant stood nearby waiting with a body bag, looking just as unhappy.

A uniformed patrolman also stood nearby observing, managing a decent game face for all that he seemed a little green in the face, and Nikita beckoned him over. "You isolated the kids who found her, right? Made sure they didn't touch anything?"

The officer confirmed both things for her - the kids' only contact with the victim had been one of them checking the body for a pulse - and Nikita sent him off to help Michael and Owen gather witness statements from the group gathered nearby. They were all attendees of the Festival Of Love and Nikita could sympathize with their obvious upset.

Michael took the officer's arrival as a sign to break from his interviews and go update Nikita. He reached Nikita shortly after Owen did - just in time to see Owen place a hand at the small of Nikita's back and lean close to whisper something in Nikita's ear.

"Good morning," he said, and Nikita almost winced as she saw him take in both her and Owen's mutually disheveled appearance. "Rough night?"

For all that he hated it and did his best to control it, Michael had a jealous streak that Nikita's friendship with Owen apparently tripped by virtue of simply existing. He also had an extremely protective streak - one of the reasons Nikita had known it was never going to work long term - and Nikita knew exactly what conclusion that combination of traits was pushing Michael to.

She also had zero time for Michael's alpha male bullshit that morning. "I was with the CSI crew at Amanda Collins' apartment all night. Owen was working the files we got sent from Boston. Now, can we get back to work, please?"

Nikita strode over to the body without waiting for a response - she didn't see the silent showdown between Owen and Michael, but she didn't have to. It didn't last long, anyway - Owen was only a step or two behind his partner.

Frank waited for Nikita's nod, then gave his report. "Definite signs of sexual assault, but no defensive wounds. Cause of death is asphyxiation, but there are no ligature marks and no bruising around her neck. She has needle marks on her arms but doesn't look like a habitual user."

Nikita and Owen looked at each other for a long moment before Owen just cursed under his breath and shook his head. "This isn't our guy."

Nikita's gut instinct said differently, though, so she signaled for Frank to continue. He didn't waste any time. "I think she was dragged here post-mortem. Her heels are all scratched up but there's no blood - or, at least, not as much as there should have been if she was still alive."

That was all Frank had to offer until he could do his autopsy, and Nikita and Owen stepped back to let the coroner and his assistant bag up the body and carry it away. It was just enough time for the two detectives to look around and confirm that there would be no tracks to speak of given the rocky soil.

There was something sharp and acrid on the morning breeze now, and Nikita forced herself to breathe deep - it was a way of punishing herself for failing another young girl, and she knew it, but that didn't mean she could keep herself from doing it anyway. "We don't even know who she is..."

Owen, feeling much the same guilt and frustration but currently having a better handle on it, just put a hand on her shoulder. "This one's not on us, Nikita. None of these are."

Nikita closed her eyes long enough to take a slow, deep breath - it helped center her again, but only just.

That balance was shattered again just a few seconds later, when Michael moved to block Owen as they headed back to finish interviewing the kids who'd found the body. Nikita, back turned as she headed up the group, didn't see it, but she heard the sound of Owen colliding with Michael's arm and knew her day was about to get even worse when she also spotted a familiar head of blonde hair at the crime scene barrier below them.

Michael apparently believed that Nikita was selectively deaf, because he didn't even let her get far enough away that she couldn't overhear before he started in on Owen - though, to be fair, he at least tried to keep his voice down. "What the hell do you think you're doing? She deserves better than-"

Owen cut Michael off, for once in his life attempting to avoid an argument with him. "You're imaging things, man. I haven't touched her - it's not like that at all."

"I'm not blind, and I'm not stupid," Michael countered, and Nikita jumped in before Owen could supply the expected comeback.

She physically shoved herself between the two men, though she was facing Michael. He took a step back after seeing the look on Nikita's face, but it wasn't enough to calm her down. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Jill Morelli is down there right now - and if you don't think she'll notice a fist fight between detectives at a crime scene, you're even more idiotic than you look right now."

Michael glanced over - sure enough, Morelli was already staring right at them - and forced himself to calm down. "Nikita..."

Nikita just glared at him. "Apology not accepted, Michael - and you better believe we will be discussing this later. For right now, just go do your fucking job and get the fuck away from me."

Even with multiple officers taking statements, it took much longer than Nikita would have liked to finish interviewing the kids who had found the body - there were a lot of false alarms and possible red herrings to sort out, but in the end it was obvious that the kids had had no part in the murder and didn't really know anything useful.

If Nikita had had any hopes that Jill Morelli would simply get bored or grow tired of waiting, they were in vain. The blonde was still standing at the crime scene barrier, specifically waiting for Nikita to judge by the way she immediately sprang into action the second Nikita was close enough to hear her over the gawkers gathered around them both. "Nikita! Is this a fourth victim? And what's this I've been hearing about a Boston Strangler copycat?"

"Not now, Jill," Nikita sighed wearily. "I don't have time to fight with you today."

Jill Morelli took one look at Nikita's face - at the raw fatigue in her eyes - and, for possibly the first time ever in her life, stood down.

{*****}

Amanda Collins stood in the bathroom, pill bottle in one hand as she measured out her medication. Days and days of waiting for test results to come back on the fourth murder had been more than Amanda's nerves could handle - though Amanda was pleased to note that she was nonetheless using less of her medication than before, and drinking far less than she had been.

At least they had identified the victim - Randi Salvino, a nineteen-year-old San Francisco native.

The doorbell rang, and Amanda felt a sudden amusing flare of deja vu as she called out for an absent Alex. Rolling her eyes at herself, she hurried to the door.

Nikita Mears was at the door, file in hand and with that certain look that Amanda had already come to associate with being completely immersed in puzzling out new information. Nikita smiled as she waved the file, but the gesture didn't quite reach her eyes. "We've got all the reports back finally."

Amanda nodded and invited her in. "You need to call the station, by the way. They've been trying to reach you but your radio's down and your cell phone is just going to voicemail."

Nikita looked at her a little oddly, though she was clearly more amused than offended or put off. "How the hell did you know that?"

"It was on the police scanner," Amanda admitted, hoping her face didn't reflect her embarrassment.

As was typical when talking to Nikita Mears, Amanda rushed on before she could stop herself. "I keep turning the damn thing off because I can't listen to it, but then I turn it back on because I can't not listen to it. Sometimes I make Alex listen to it for me, which she really, really hates."

The words all tumbled out in a rush - very unlike Amanda's normally precise speech pattern - and Nikita's expression changed from amusement to concern. "Amanda - are you okay? You seem a little..."

Amanda drew in a deep breath, then let it back out. "Better than I have been in a long time, actually. But sometimes being cooped up here, it just..."

She trailed off, but Nikita understood her well enough. Amanda was fine, just lonelier than she'd ever openly admit and apparently in dire need of someone to just talk to.

Despite all this, Amanda was the picture of patience as Nikita borrowed her landline to call the precinct. She also made them both a snack and poured them something to drink while she waited, which may have helped.

Finally, though, they were able to sit down and go over the info Nikita had brought. Nikita couldn't help expressing her frustration about it all. "Everything's different, but my gut says this is the same guy. I can't prove that, though - Randi Salvino was asphyxiated but not strangled, was sexually assaulted, and was dumped outdoors."

Amanda nodded. "So nothing like DeSalvo, then."

"There's something... artificial about the whole thing," Nikita added. "Like the body dump was staged. I mean, why else would you leave it on that hill when you know it'll be found right away?"

Amanda pondered that for a moment, then just shrugged. "It's not common, but the routine - the ritual - does sometimes change. The killer was copycatting before - maybe he's working out his own modus operandi?"

Nikita nodded slightly in acknowledgment as she opened the folder and pulled out the reports. "There were two kinds of sperm found. None of this reads like a gang rape gone wrong though."

Amanda froze in the middle of sipping at her tea, an odd look on her face. "One secretor and the other not, right?"

She was already tapping away at her tablet before Nikita could even respond. "Yes, exactly."

"Was there a needle mark on her left arm?" Amanda was still tapping away, not even bothering to look at Nikita.

Nikita, for her part, wasn't sure how Amanda knew all of this when she hadn't reviewed the files yet, but wasn't going to question it without a damn good reason. "Yes, but toxicology came back clean - or at least, nothing she couldn't have taken at the festival."

Sensing that Amanda was onto something, Nikita offered up the only other fact of note she could think of. "She was found near a No Dumping sign."

"Like this?" Amanda finally asked, holding out the tablet.

Nikita swore, loudly and at length, as she looked at the old, grainy image Amanda had pulled up - a dead girl, naked except for a pair of underwear, lay face-down in a field beside a No Dumping sign. "That's my goddamn crime scene!"

Jumping to her feet, Nikita started pacing. Amanda allowed the detective that moment or two of silence, so that Nikita could process enough of her response to the change in the case that her emotions wouldn't cloud her analysis. She was about to call Nikita's attention back to the files when Nikita stopped suddenly and turned to face her. "Okay - who? Who is the bastard copying now?"

Amanda calmly sipped at her tea - she'd poured herself a second cup while watching Nikita pace. "He's switched to Bianchi and Buono - collectively known as the Hillside Strangler. Everything else aside, his commitment to a perfect recreation is impressive."

She didn't flinch or blink as Nikita glared at her, but the brief flare of anger burned through the last of Nikita's emotional turmoil. "So why change now? These guys tend to be robots - you said it yourself, it's like a ritual to them."

Amanda shrugged. "Perhaps copying other killers *is* his ritual - or maybe he just gets bored. Either way, once he's recreated one killer to his satisfaction, he moves on to the next - though it would be nice if we had enough information to determine some sort of pattern to who he copies."

Nikita, back to pacing silently - though in contemplation now rather than anger or frustration - didn't respond, so Amanda looked through the folder for the toxicology report. Scanning it, she saw that it hadn't looked for any of the things they actually needed it to - though she hadn't really expected it would. "You need to have another toxicology screen run - one that tests for the chemicals found in Windex. Bianchi and Buono injected one of their victims with it."

Nikita stopped pacing and just flopped unceremoniously onto the couch, frustration written in her posture and in her eyes. "Fucking hell! We had this - just last night - or at least the bastard wanting us to think we did. I thought maybe that video was our lucky break, but she was probably already dead before he even sent it to you."

Amanda had never been one to comfort or coddle unnecessarily - she'd always believed that a healthy dose of realism was the best way to approach any situation. That didn't mean she couldn't sympathize, though, and she felt for Nikita's obvious distress. "I'm sorry, Nikita. I wish I could give you better news, but this guy is very good at what he does. He's smart, he's enjoying himself, and he's going to keep killing until someone stops him."

Nikita just stared at her blankly for a moment as she processed Amanda's candor, then finally nodded her acceptance. And this time, when Amanda held out a snifter with a nice helping of cognac, Nikita didn't turn it away.


	8. Chapter Seven

NOTE: This will be the last chapter posted until December or January - I'm using NaNoWriMo in November to finish this story up, and should hopefully move to editing it shortly thereafter so I can keep posting!

{*****}

_...in an apparent attempt to recreate murders committed in the 1960s by Albert DeSalvo, the Boston Strangler. My confidential sources tell me that a special task force has already been created focusing on this specific angle._

Peter Foley hit the Back button on his web browser, taking him back to the main page for Jill Morelli's blog. He'd just been reading her evening entry - the one she posted every weekday around 6pm. He spared a small smile for the perfectly made up image of Morelli displayed in one corner of the site - she was nowhere near as clever as she thought she was, but she had her moments, and he rather enjoyed reading about them.

Still, he had more important things to consider just now - like the speed, or lack thereof, at which the media was absorbing and then broadcasting the details of his work, and if it was sufficient for his overall plan. As far as he could tell, the general media was still one step - one killer - behind, and hadn't caught on to his recent change in methodology.

It was also possible, of course, that they were simply being kept from that realization. He didn't really have enough detailed information on the two lead Inspectors - Mears and Elliot - to fully gauge their competency, but he'd seen enough to think that they should have figured out the game by now. Admittedly, though, he was a little confused by the conspicuous absence of the FBI Behavioral Sciences Unit if that were in fact the case.

On the other hand, Mears had apparently had the profoundly good sense to bring Amanda Collins into the game. With Collins on board, involving the FBI would be beyond redundant - she'd understand what was happening the instant Mears and Elliot got her all the information they'd managed to gather. He was trying to patient, but he hoped it wouldn't take long - until he and Amanda Collins were on the same page, he was a Van Cliburn, or maybe an Itzhak Perlman, performing without an audience.

A huge smile broke across Peter's face. It was good to be in synch with one's muse - he just hoped Amanda Collins understood that his performance was for her and her alone.

The smile stayed in place as he reached for his worn copy of _Our Sons, Our Killers: Profiles Of The American Serial Killer_. He felt a little bad about the book's condition, but this was his working copy, and he had a pristine copy, complete with autograph, safely tucked away.

The damage to this particular copy had been come by honestly enough. It was his primer, his Bible, and he used it heavily during the planning stages of each kill. It was essential that he get everything exactly right, down to the smallest particular - that was the only way to properly showcase his own subtle twists and trademarks, so that Amanda Collins could properly appreciate his genius the way he did hers.

{*****}

"...this latest killer. Apparently, the San Francisco Police Department has chosen to bring in noted criminal psychologist Doctor Amanda Collins. You may remember her from the Daryl Lee Cullum case - her expert testimony helped convict Cullum for the killings of a dozen women. He's currently on death row awaiting execution..."

Nikita, watching the news in the conference room the task force had taken over, held her breath as she waited for the inevitable segue into Daryl lee Cullum's horrifying attack on Amanda. The idea of Amanda being reduced to just another of Cullum's victims pissed her off in a way she couldn't quite express - fortunately, the news report made the wise decision not to go there, and a breath Nikita didn't know she was holding whooshed out of her as she shut the television off.

"Aw fuck," Owen exclaimed, voice overly loud in the sudden silence. He turned to Nikita, who was eying him quizzically. "I ran into Morelli in Collins' parking lot the other night - I didn't give her anything, so I figured it would be okay. She must have said something to one of her buddies."

Nikita snarled a curse much like Owen's as she dove for her phone. It started ringing before she even had it in her hands, and the name displayed was exactly who she'd thought it would be. "Listen, Amanda-"

"You lied to me!" Amanda sounded nearly hysterical with fury, and Nikita couldn't blame her. "My name is all over the news!"

Owen winced as he overheard, and tried to look apologetic before moving safely beyond Nikita's reach. Glaring at him one last time, Nikita tried to calm Amanda down. "It wasn't us, Amanda, I swear. A reporter by the name of Jill Morelli has been dogging the case and must have figured it out somehow."

That sucked a little of the wind from Amanda's sails, but not much. "Do you even understand what this means, Inspector? What kind of danger it puts me in? What kind of danger it puts Alex in?"

Nikita flinched at that, though none of this was her fault. "Look, if I'd known that Morelli was going to be a problem, I would have handled it. I'll find some way to make this right, okay?"

Looking up, she realized that every pair of eyes in the meeting room was fixed on her with open and avid interest. Rolling her eyes, she stood up and grabbed her coat before heading for the door. "I'm coming over, okay? We'll find a way to fix this - whatever you need to be safe."

{*****}

"...the brutal murders of twelve women. During the trial, Cullum escaped from custody and attacked Doctor Amanda Collins, killing the police officer assigned to protect her. Police remain tight-lipped about the progress and focus of their investigation, but today's discovery of a possible fourth victim is undoubtedly causing many San Franciscans to wonder if the police have made any progress at all in catching the killer..."

Daryl Lee Cullum ground out his cigarette, then got up and turned off the tiny television that sat on shelves across from his bunk. It had been a gift from one of his many female admirers.

"Well, good for you, Amanda," Daryl Lee said at length, addressing his empty cell and the blank television screen.

"Hey, good for you, Daryl Lee," came the sarcastic reply from the neighboring cell, but Daryl Lee ignored it.

Joe Dellums - the source of the sarcastic comment - apparently thought it was hilarious, and chortled about it for a full five minutes. He stopped just as suddenly as he'd started, probably having forgotten why he'd been laughing to begin with.

No one said anything, though. Joe Dellums was no genius by any stretch of the imagination, but he'd managed to slice and dice a fellow inmate during his last stay at San Quentin - that was no mean feat, considering the frequency and thoroughness with which both prisoners and cells were searched. The thought of doing more time was meaningless to Joe, since he was already serving three consecutive life sentences for a combination of rapes, murders, and breaking-and-entering.

Daryl Lee, for his part, had about 50 IQ points on Joe Dellums, and used that heightened intellect to stay the fuck away from him.

Daryl Lee was of the firm opinion that anyone believing hell was only experienced in the afterlife had never entered the gates of San Quentin. The state penitentiary - now over 150 years old - sat across the bay from San Francisco, on the other side of Paradise Cove. Daryl Lee still marveled that a little stretch of water was all that kept him separated from Amanda Collins.

In truth, however, the good doctor had little to fear from that. San Quentin was one of the most finely tuned and impregnable maximum security facilities out there - escaping from it would be like escaping the gates of Hell itself. Even just walking the yard was an exercise in terror and danger - between five and six thousand of California's most hardened felons lived within those walls, and both prisoners and guards alike lived in a state of constant vigilance.

The most stringent unit of San Quentin was the Adjustment Center - a prison within a prison. The guards referred to it by its initials - AC - but it had always been better known as 'the hole'. The most famous inmate to be housed there - Black Panther George Jackson - had been killed crossing the yard in 1971 after leading a mini-insurrection that left six dead.

The lesson there was that no one escaped the hole. Daryl Lee Cullum, living in Room 23 on the North Tier for this past year, had taken that lesson to heart when he made it his new home after his capture and subsequent re-trial.

Like most residents of the Adjustment Center, Daryl Lee was not considered safe enough or trustworthy enough to allow a prison job. He only got to walk the yard - to see the administration buildings, the main gate's gun tower, and the armed balcony towers - on those rare occasions when he had a meeting with his lawyer.

On those occasions, he walked as slowly as he could get away with to allow himself just a few more seconds of precious sunlight - he couldn't know it, but he'd grown every bit as pale as Amanda Collins.

Daryl Lee made sure never to complain, though - sometimes, as he made his way along the prison stairs in the Adjustment Center, he heard the groans and wailings of the prisoners currently occupying the strip cells. These were windowless concrete boxes with a hole in the floor to act as a latrine, and Daryl had made an very intelligent decision to avoid ever being put in one if at all possible.

It was more a fervent vow than a simple decision, actually, and to that end Daryl Lee Cullum was obsequiously obedient to every guard in the North Tier. The byproduct of this behavior was that Daryl Lee had somehow managed to become a model prisoner, and that he'd found his time in San Quentin to be exceedingly productive.

Now that Joe Dellums had quieted down, Daryl Lee could get on with the next set of scheduled activities. Picking up his Bible and his hard cover, first edition copy of _Our Sons, Our Killers: Profiles Of The American Serial Killer_, he carried them both over to his bunk. He'd already pulled out his handwritten first draft of his own book - _Daryl Lee, My Story: The Truth About Why I had To Kill_.

The completed manuscript had been written longhand with a black felt-tip plastic pen - not due to any specific artistic choice on his part, but just because that's all that was available to the prisoners. Daryl Lee hadn't minded that at all - writing helped pass away the long hours that would otherwise be spent staring at the gray walls of his cell or enduring the seemingly endless rantings and arguments of his neighbors.

He'd tried to spruce up his cell as best he could, using what was available to him, and magazine cutouts and photos of the most attractive of his correspondents covered parts of the wall. Even with those embellishments, though, there was no disguising the fact that he was in a claustrophobic hell mapped out in cold steel bars and concrete walls the color of oatmeal - and, odd as it sounded, Daryl Lee actually kind of respected the honesty there...

Unlike people on the outside, finding time to write wasn't exactly a challenge for Daryl. In his own words, the only other things he was allowed to do were eating, showering, shitting, and Bible class - and Bible class had been 'temporarily' suspended ever since another inmate had hidden a knife in his New Testament and used it cut off the ear of his new cellmate, whose religious views apparently clashed with his.

Daryl hadn't really found the canceled Bible study to be much of a hardship. It had allowed him to finish his book, and even get a typed copy made - one of his correspondents, Sherry Diane, was an aspiring paralegal (and Sunday School teacher) who had believed in his literary efforts enough to type the handwritten manuscript up for him.

Sherry had also taken it upon herself to further help Daryl Lee out by sending a copy of the manuscript to one of those True Crime publishers. They'd eaten it up, and, after some back and forth with Daryl Lee's lawyer, had agreed to purchase it - _Daryl Lee, My Story: The Truth About Why I Had To Kill_ would be hitting the shelves in paperback any day now.

Daryl Lee himself would see no profits from the book - by law, any profits made would go to the families of his victims - but he'd made his peace with that. Given his circumstances, the fame and attention was of more use than the money anyway. He'd even made private arrangements for an autographed advance copy to be sent to Amanda Collins, the person whose opinion he valued most - he deeply regretted that he wouldn't be there to see her face when it arrived.

Sherry, ever the soul of compassion and forgiveness, thought Daryl Lee's book was a work of genius and would be a must-read for every young person in America. In fact, he owed the final chapter detailing his finding of religion to her - he'd never really intended to include anything about that, since he didn't want anyone being distracted from seeing his true message about his wicked ways by the thought that someone as bad as he was could find redemption.

No, the entire point of _Daryl Lee, My Story_ had been to fulfill the God-given duty of revealing the horrors of his childhood, and to tell the world how Satan had compelled him to do all those evil things. Besides, Daryl Lee felt that he was too unique to just lump in with other serial killers - he wasn't some quiet repressed freak who'd suddenly started killing people.

He was far too clever and handsome to be compared to those other guys. His gaze involuntarily slid to the small shaving mirror over his sink, smiling at the wavy red hair done up like Elvis (minus the grease) and the blue eyes that seemed all the more vivid against his prison uniform.

The rest of the reflected image he filled in from imagination, his delusion that he was some sort of sex symbol allowing him to overwrite the aspects of his appearance that were less than ideal. He never saw his bad skin reflected, or the neglected, stained teeth produced by a lifetime of bad or nonexistent dental habits. He also had a completely different mental image of the puffy lips that he just knew drove girls wild.

To be fair, it wasn't as if there was anything challenging Daryl Lee's delusions. He'd never had any problems attracting girlfriends - though even he admitted that most of them were just as sick and twisted as he was. He'd probably have no trouble keeping them, either, if it weren't for his irresistible urge to carve them up once he started to get close to them.

It definitely posed a problem as far as maintaining any kind of long term relationship - Daryl Lee acknowledged this, and blamed his troubles on the lack of a healthy parental role model. His father had been shot in a bar brawl when Daryl Lee was four years old - before that, he'd beaten Daryl Lee, Daryl Lee's mother, and Daryl Lee's sister on a regular basis.

Daryl lee's mother hadn't been broken or cowed by the abuse - it had just turned her hard and mean, and had put some pretty extreme notions in her head. She'd ranted and raved at every opportunity about how evil the flesh was, and also praised God at every opportunity for removing Daryl Lee's father from her life.

None of this was especially compatible with a young son entering puberty. Daryl Lee's first wet dream had brought her complete and focused wrath down on him, and she'd tied him to his bed for three days, denying him food and water in hopes of purifying him. Once she released her terrified son, she very specifically forbade him to masturbate - that was the sum total of their conversation about the physical changes that had led her to imprison him for three whole days.

She'd also been hard at work during those days to ensure that there was simply no opportunity to defy her edict. She removed the door handle from his bedroom door and from the bathroom door - as well as taking the locks off every door in the house - allowing her son no sense of privacy whatsoever. Daryl Lee was from that moment on allowed only a single minute at a time to himself in the bathroom - after those sixty seconds had passed, his mother stood there with him while he finished his business.

It was entirely possible that Daryl Lee's growing rage and increasingly homicidal fantasies might have remained solely focused on his mother - had she lived. Unfortunately for all his future victims, Daryl Lee's mother died in an automobile accident when he was just fifteen. With no other target, an angry and confused Daryl Lee had started taking out his trauma on whoever happened to be both conveniently placed and vulnerable before finally being put into an adolescent reform program.

His own sister would probably would have wound up as one of his victims had they not been separated after their mother's death. All contact between them had ended just before Daryl Lee moved from troubled and violent to completely unhinged.

Writing his autobiography had proved something of a pleasant challenge for Daryl Lee - coming from what he himself described as poor white trash family and background, he'd never really had much formal schooling. The reform program had actually helped him there - he actually managed to earn his high school diploma before his release, and had even been educating himself in some of the classics. (This was also where he had acquired his skill with woodcarving, which he later applied to carving flesh instead.)

When he finally decided to start writing his book, though, he'd been hard-pressed to find a tone and style he deemed suitable. After a while, and some trial and error, he finally settled on a combination he thought was perfect - a blend of Amanda Collins' no-nonsense prose, his translation of Bible, and the straightforward but engaging language of the news shows he liked to watch in his cell.

He always started his writing sessions by reading a chapter from his Bible, after which he would leaf through it until he found a juicy quote to open the next section of his book with. A favorite find of his, stumbled across while documenting his mother's ramblings about sin, was I Corinthians 6:19 - "_...do you know that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have from God, and that you are not your own?_"

The next step would be to look through Amanda Collins' book and choose a serial killer to read about - he really liked her way of being able to just pick apart how the crazy bastards' minds worked. His favorite so far was Ed Gein - the man had literally turned murder into art, making mobiles from body parts, lampshades and trash cans from human skin, and using human skulls as dinnerware.

Once he had started writing his book, Daryl Lee had felt an inescapable compulsion to reveal the whole and complex truth about his life and his childhood. He'd already done as much for Amanda Collins during their sessions - he could talk to that woman for hours and hours and hours - but she'd only given him a few lousy pages at the end of her book. When he'd asked her about that, she'd explained that he hadn't come to trial yet and the fact that she was a primary witness for the prosecution limited what she could include.

He'd accepted the excuse, though he hadn't quite believed it - refusing to accept it would mean looking at why it had pissed him off so much to begin with, and that was a can of worms best left unopened. See, underneath the repentant, born-again persona, Daryl Lee hadn't really changed much at all - he desperately wanted to get his favorite knife back and use it to carve some pretty patterns into Amanda Collins' perfect skin.

If Daryl Lee was being completely truthful - which he generally was not - he very much wanted to have Amanda Collins all to himself for a weekend in some quiet place where no one would find them until he was ready to be found. That desire - that need to show the good doctor firsthand what really made him tick - was what had gotten him into trouble at Berkeley, and he was still kicking himself for not being more careful.

Over this last year of imprisonment, his obsession with Amanda Collins had also expanded to include taking his revenge on her for being put here. It was an impossible dream he was dreaming, but one he'd find some way to realize: one day, he'd bust out of here, out of San Quentin, and go find the one woman truly worthy of his attention anymore...

{*****}

It was 7:30 in the evening, and Peter Foley had just completed his weekly scrubbing of his house - precisely as his mother had taught him. Feeling he had earned a respite after so conscientiously meeting his obligations, Peter immediately retreated to his basement.

The basement was quiet and dim - he had turned off all the lights except the one directly above where he sat, and most of the electronics he'd brought down there were either powered off or sitting dormant. The remaining noise was exactly the correct amount and composition to function as white noise.

Peter was actually enjoying the respite from sensory input - ever since he'd past through the first, or aura phase, of his development as a killer, he'd found that all his senses had become unusually heightened. Colors were sharper, time moved oddly, his skin was more sensitive to the touch - even his hearing had become sharper, and he could easily have broken down and isolated the various noises around him had he wanted to.

He was between kills just now, and needed the peace and quiet to counterbalance the post-kill depression that had already begun to creep in, and that would only grow steadily worse until the next kill. There had been a gap of several weeks between his first and second kills, and the depression had been almost crippling - he'd decided then not to wait so long between kills, even if it meant a little extra work in the planning stages.

He'd known that it was time to change patterns after the final Boston Strangler recreation just by the way he'd still felt slightly hollow inside even under the rush of near-perfection. He'd mastered one model, it was time to move on to the next - deciding on the Hillside Strangler had been easy enough, though switching had also meant extra time spent on planning and setup, especially in this case.

It had payed off well - he'd felt that same sense of completion with just the one kill, his recreation had been so perfect - but he was already itching to move on to the next model. He'd actually already chosen the next model and begun his planning, though he was still debating himself over whether it was safe to act again so soon.

In the interim, though, it wouldn't hurt to start preparing - he hadn't been able to sleep for than two or three hours a night lately, anyway. Tonight's task would keep him well-occupied, he decided after reading over the list of things to obtain: bullets, music, gas for his car, ink to print up a note for Amanda Collins...

First, though, he had an email he wanted to finish - he'd enjoyed reaching out to send Amanda that link to his video, and wanted to do it again. He was still trying to work out what to say, so he got up and walked over to the large gray footlocker sitting out on a nearby workspace.

Inside the footlocker were a quartet of smaller covered plastic containers about the size of a shoe box - jokingly referred to by Peter as Pandora's Boxes, each box contained mementos and souvenirs of his kills. The idea of keeping trophies wouldn't have occurred to Peter spontaneously, but Amanda had been quite thorough in outlining the practice in her book and the notion had caught his fancy.

Each of the boxes held the small treasures he'd stolen from his previous four victims, and Peter had found that handling them could ease the lingering malaise he felt between kills. They were all just tiny things for all that they held so much power to sooth him - a tube of lipstick or a compact, maybe a bottle of perfume or a small piece of jewelry. The primary criteria was that they were small enough to easily fit in a pocket - which also meant that they were so small no one except his victim would ever even notice their absence.

Even so, he treated them with a care and dignity bordering on reverence - the same sort of reverence given ancient artifacts of great historical importance. That was part of Peter's particular vision - that he'd be so famous that these trophies he'd collected would end up on display in some great museum somewhere as part of some macabre but well-known wing detailing famous serial killers.

Tonight, though, those small boxes held only minor interest for him - he checked only that the contents of each box were in order before setting the box aside. Once all four boxes were removed, they revealed a larger, shallower covered box underneath - the kind you'd put your out-of-season clothes in to pack them away until it was time to wear them again.

The lid of this particular box had a richly detailed painting of Helen of Troy, scanned out of a book on Greek mythology and printed specifically for this purpose. There was also another printout containing several lines from Frederich Schiller's poem 'The Feast Of Victory.' Peter knew them by heart and couldn't help reciting them aloud.

_...The Spartan eyes his Helen's charms,_  
_by the best blood of Greece recaptured;_  
_round that fair form his arms_  
_(a second bridal) wreath, enraptured._  
_Woe waits the work of evil birth,_  
_revenge to deeds unblessed is given!_  
_For watchful o'er the things of earth,_  
_the eternal council halls of Heaven._  
_Yes, ill shall ever ill repay;_  
_Jove to the impious hands that stain_  
_the alter of man's heart_  
_again the doomer's doom shall weigh!_

Somehow, in all his many readings of the poem, and the myth that it referred to, Peter had gotten that particular section's meaning all tangled up in his head. In his mind, the world itself was cruel and evil and unjust, and in dire need of punishment. He himself had been born to be its judge and avenger, and he alone was due fair Helen - Amanda Collins - as his victory prize.

Removing the lid from the box - which held the most sacred of all his sacred momentoes - he picked up and examined every token of Amanda Collins that he'd been able to collect. The very top layer was composed of all the photographs he'd managed to take of Amanda in her apartment, including a few with the young woman he understood to be her foster daughter. The layer underneath that consisted of various CDs and DVDs - one of them, the one he lingered on longest, was labeled 'Berkeley'.

The bottom-most layer consisted of various file folders and printouts, some of them clearly original school papers. These were all kept neatly and meticulously stacked at the bottom of the box to keep them safe - his collection of Amanda's articles and reports and schoolwork had required great effort to build, and was nearly as precious to him as his signed copy of her book, which was also in this box.

For this very reason, a small flash drive had its own place of honor in one corner. He'd spent many happy hours scanning and otherwise copying everything in that box that he possibly could, placing it all on a tiny drive that would serve as some measure of consolation and replacement if anything happened to his originals.

Peter reached for the small plastic drive, pondering if he should perhaps stash it somewhere separate to maximize its chances of survival in case of emergency or disaster. He didn't like the idea of it being apart from his other mementos of Amanda Collins, though - perhaps he could create a second backup on another drive?

Before he could ponder that further, however, his fingers brushed up against the cool plastic protecting the silk cloth that had been placed underneath the drive itself. The bit of black silk in that bag was a woman's slip, carefully folded and sealed in a plastic bag, and the only item of clothing to have made it into Peter's collection of trophies.

He'd stolen that slip from Amanda Collins' own bedroom. He resisted the urge to remove it from the bag and hold it to his nose, but he knew the scent of her perfume would still be strong if he were to do so. Just the mere thought of that night brought the rush of it all back, and Peter closed his eyes as he let himself replay it all.

He'd snuck into the apartment through a security flaw no one had noticed, waiting in a dark corner of the loft until she'd wandered upstairs. She'd sensed him at some point, somehow, and called out for someone - he hadn't been sure if it was for her daughter, or if she had a lover he somehow didn't know about.

Standing there in the dark, listening to her call out a man's name in that honeyed voice of hers, it had been hard not to answer her. He'd longed so badly to go to her, to soothe her loneliness even as he drank in her fear - the picture in his mind of his hands wrapped around her neck, her skin soft under his fingertips, had been almost more than he could stand in silence.

He'd made himself stay hidden, though, keeping to the dark, quiet lower floor of the apartment as he explored Amanda Collins' private sanctuary. It was hard to see much detail in the little light he'd had available, but he'd seen enough to know that she had the exquisite taste he'd expected she would - and seen enough to know that she shared his love of the electronic and mechanical.

That sudden flash of kinship receded to the background as he heard the shower start running upstairs. That prompted a new image - one of pale perfect skin wet with water and blood. He'd actually made it up the stairs and into her bedroom, driven by pure need and instinct, before he managed to pull himself back and calm himself again.

The opportunity to search her bedroom - her sanctum sanctorum, if he understood anything at all about women - was impossible to resist, because of the risk rather than in spite of it. He lingered at her vanity for several minutes, looking through makeup and perfume and hairpins before he decided there was too much risk of something being missed.

Taking one last look around the room - he didn't have much time, not that any amount of time would have truly been sufficient to worship at this particular shrine - he'd noticed the clothes laid out on the bed. He'd tried to picture Amanda getting dressed - the panties first, then the bra, then the crisp white shirt and black slacks - then frowned at what should have been an altogether pleasant image.

After a heartbeat or two as he stood staring at the offending garments, he realized the problem. The outfit Amanda had picked just wasn't the one she should be wearing - she'd look lovely enough, to be sure, but she should be wearing a dress, not slacks, and a vivid red instead of the somber white and black she'd chosen.

Snatching up the clothes, he'd quickly returned them to the closet. He'd started looking around for something that fit his mental image of Amanda's ideal wardrobe, and couldn't believe his blind, dumb luck when he found not just any any red dress, but *the* red dress - the one she'd worn that day at Berkeley.

Knowing he couldn't have much more time at all before he was discovered - and deciding he was not yet ready for that - Peter had quickly grabbed the dress and a completely different set of lingerie he thought better suited to it. The black silk slip had fallen to the closet floor during his rummaging - it had smelled of her perfume, and he'd been unable to resist the impulse to take it after being unable to take anything from the vanity.

It had taken incredible self control to tuck the undergarment away to preserve that scent, but he couldn't bear the thought of it fading away. He'd tried and tried since then, but had yet to locate her specific perfume - none of the names he'd seen on her vanity had been right so far.

Inspiration struck Peter as he imagined Amanda clad in only that slip, the black silk hardly hiding anything as it skimmed her body from shoulder to mid-thigh. The idea wasn't tied to that image itself, necessarily, but Amanda had always been a muse to him and the special magic only she possessed had filled him once again.

Forcing himself to very carefully repack and replace the boxes and the footlocker containing them - exceedingly difficult, given his current excitement, but very necessary - Peter sat back down at his computer and opened the folder where he stored all of his pictures. After a quick peek into several subfolders to confirm that he did indeed have the images he wanted, he opened his copy of Photoshop and used it to load the base image he wanted to start from.

It would delay his other errands, but he was fine with that - creating the perfect present for Amanda that he'd just envisioned was worth the wait.


End file.
